LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

,        SAN  DIEGO 


TALES  FROM 
ALFRED   DE   MUSSET 


'ales  f r  o  m 


Alfred  defMusset 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION 
BY 

E.  DE  V.  VERMONT 


NEW   YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

Publishers 


•ten 


COPYRIGHT,  1888, 

BV 
BRENTANO'S 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A   FEW  WORDS  ABOUT   MUSSET 9 

MARGOT 37 

THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.     .     .    „          , 119 

CROISILLES 183 

VALENTIN'S  WAGER 236 


TALES    FROM 
ALFRED   DE    MUSSET 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 


"On  va  s'imaginer  que  c'est  une  preface. 

Moi  qui  n'en  Us  jamais  ! — Ni  vous  non  plus,  je  crois." 
— [Za  Coupe  et  les  Lhtres, 

I  HAVE  no  doubt  but  tRat  the  name  on  the 
cover  of  this  little  book  will  alarm  many 
minds  imperfectly  informed  as  to  the  true 
character  of  the  choice  spirit  who,  for  some 
few,  too  short,  years,  bore  in  this  world  the 
name  of  Alfred  de  Musset.  Indeed  this 
poet  of  untrammelled  ways, 

"...  qui  garda  pour  ses  dieux 
L'audace  et  la  fierte,'' 

ever  possessed  the  fatal  gift  of  arousing  by 
his  disdain  the  active  hostility  of  society's 
Pharisees, — the  seried  ranks 

"  Des  tartufes  de  moeurs,  corned iens  insolents 
Qui  mettent  leurvertu  enmettant  leurs  gants  blancs." 

And  even  among  those  whose  irreproach- 
able lives  render  them  indulgent  toward  the 

Q 


10     A    FEW    IVORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

weaknesses  of-  their  fellow-men,  one  finds 
only  too  many  who  do  not  hesitate  to  charge 
the  magic  power  of  Mussel's  genius,  com- 
bined with  the  example  of  a  life  bereft  of  all 
strengthening  and  consoling  illusions,  with 
that  relaxing  influence  which,  during  the  past 
sixty  years,  has  acted  so  disastrously  upon 
the  rising  generations  of  France. 

In  a  single  cruel  and  decisive  word, 
Musset,  the  luminous  poet,  the  architect 
of  so  many  dainty  fabrics  of  the  imagina- 
tion, has  been  branded  on  the  forehead  with 
the  withering  stigma  of  a  corrupter  of 
youth. 

Let  me,  here,  once  and  for  all,  reassure 
the  reader,  by  declaring  that  this  grave  ac- 
cusation, whether  well  or  ill-founded,  can 
not,  in  any  case,  bear  upon  the  three  histori- 
ettes  and  the  exquisite  comedietta,  an  English 
translation  of  which  is  here  presented  for  the 
first  time. 

The  grace,  the  immaculate  innocence  of 
Margot ;  Croisilles*  good-humor  and  ingenu- 
ity in  devising  expedients  ;  the  rococo  little 
adventure  of  the  young  Chevalier  de  Vauvert, 
at  the  court  of  the  famous  favorite  ;  the 
loves  of  Valentin  and  Chile  ; — none  of  these 
gems  of  fiction,  brimming  over,  as  they  are, 
with  alert  life,  in  all  their  refined  felicity  of 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      11 

expression,  could   possibly  afford   the  slight- 
est pretext  for  puritanical  cavilling. 

If,  then,  I  see  fit  to  break  a  lance  in  be- 
half of  the  renowned  poet,  let  it  be  clearly 
understood,  from  the  outset,  that  the  present 
volume  must  remain,  in  any  case,  unaffected 
by  the  issue.  The  views  I  express  incident- 
ally as  to  the  bearing  of  an  author's  private 
life  upon  our  appreciation  of  his  works,  find 
no  practical  application  whatever  in  these 
four  unimpeachable  examples  of  our  writer's 
work. 

In  spite  of  my  horror  of  anything  which 
resembles  in  the  remotest  degree  the  "  en- 
cyclopedia article  "  style  of  writing,  I  find 
myself  obliged  to  slip  in  some  few  words  of 
biography,  in  order  to  so  pose  my  subject 
that  he  may  appear  not  as  the  ogre,  greedy 
to  devour  young  innocence,  who  is  the  Mus- 
set  of  popular  belief,  but  in  proprid  persona, 
in  his  simplicity  of  character,  his  unassaila- 
ble honesty,  his  unwavering  loyalty  to  him- 
self and  to  his  readers.  Besides,  has  he  not 
said  of  Nature  that, 

"  Quand  elle  pe'trit  ces  nobles  creatures, 
Elle  qui  voit  la-haut  comme  on  vit  ici-bas, 
Elle  sait  des  secrets  qui  les  font  assez  pures 
Pour  que  le  monde  entier  ne  les  lui  souille  pas  ? 


12      A   FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

And  these  verses,  in  which  no  personal 
application,  certainly,  ever  entered  his 
thoughts,  form  the  most  appropriate  epi- 
graph for  the  few  pages,  at  once  memoir 
and  apology,  which  I  am  about  to  offer  in 
behalf  of  the  famous  fellow-pupil  of  the 
Orleans  princes. 

Of  an  ancient  race  of  the  Venddme  coun- 
try — that  soil  which,  at  the  same  period,  wit- 
nessed the  unfolding  of  Balzac's  glorious 
genius, — the  Vicomte  Alfred  de  Musset- 
Pathay  reckoned  among  his  direct  ancestors 
poets  like  Colin  de  Musset,  the  contemporary 
and  friend  of  Thibaut,  Comte  de  Champagne, 
in  the  days  of  the  last  Crusades, — warriors 
like  Alexandre  de  Musset,  the  companion  in 
arms  of  Maurice  de  Saxe  ;  whilst,  among  the 
illustrious  alliances  of  his  house  we  find 
Catherine  du  Lys,  a  niece  of  Jeanne  d'Arc, 
and  a  du  Bellay, — a  name  eloquent  of  poetic 
reminiscences. 

For  his  knightly  device — beneath  the  gol- 
den sparrow-hawk,  the  ancient  blazon  of  a 
long  line  of  seigneurs — he  bore  these  words, 
replete  with  the  proud  spirit  of  chivalry, 
gentle  to  the  weak,  fearless  in  the  onslaught  : 
— Courtoisic  e.t  Bonne  Aveniure  aux  Preux. 

Of  the  noble  domains  thus  baptized,  the 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      *3 

second — later  on  the  inheritance  of  Alfred 
de  Mussel — served,  in  days  gone  by,  as  the 
mysterious  nest  of  Antoine  de  Bourbon's 
light  amours — the  same  Antoine  known  to 
history  as  the  husband  of  the  austere  Jeanne 
d'Aibret  and  the  father  of  Henry  the  Great, 
King  of  France  and  Navarre. 

Thus  il  was  lhat  the  most  polished,  as  well 
as  the  most  passionate,  of  French  poets 
traced  his  descent  through  a  line  distin- 
guished for  valor  in  the  field  as  well  as  for 
wisdom  in  the  council-chamber  and  intel- 
lectual culture.  The  father  of  Alfred  and 
Paul — those  two  brothers  united  by  such 
tender  affection — knew  how  lo  blend  in 
Himself  the  diverse  characteristics  of  a  race 
devoted  to  noble  utterances,  noble  deeds, 
and  noble  thoughts. 

Faithful  al  heart  lo  Ihe  exlinguished  star 
of  the  Napoleons,  Victor  de  Mussel  was  nol 
wanling  lo  Ihe  worlhy  traditions  of  his  house, 
and  it  was  in  an  atmosphere  of  exquisite  re- 
finement  and  unfaltering  affection  lhat  this 
child  of  genius  came  into  the  world  and 
grew  to  manhood. 

And  yel  this  nest  of  domestic  love,  so  ten- 
derly shielded  against  the  brunt  of  life  and  of 
fortune,  could  not  escape  the  disturbing  in- 
fluences of  a  troubled  epoch.  Born  in  1810, 


M     A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

Alfred  and  Paul  de  Musset  spelt  out  their 
first  lessons  from  the  bulletins  of  the  Grande 
ArmJe,  and  shed  their  first  tears  of  true  bitter- 
ness over  the  terrible  catastrophe  of  the 
Emperor.  "  These  children  were  drops  of 
that  boiling  blood  which  had  flooded  the 
earth  ;  they  were  born  in  the  bosom  of  war, 
for  war. — They  had  not  been  outside  of  their 
native  town,  but  they  had  been  told  that 
through  each  of  its  gates  the  road  led  to  one  of 
the  capitals  of  Europe.  They  carried  in  their 
heads  a  whole  world  ; — and  now  they  looked 
upon  the  earth  and  the  heavens,  upon  the 
streets  and  roads  ; — all  was  empty."  Sent  to 
the  Lyceum  at  a  very  early  age,  and  brought 
into  contact,  thenceforward,  with  the  ultra- 
nervous  generation  of  the  time,  Alfred  felt  a 
passionate  interest  in  that  gigantic  series  of 
epic  events  from  which  Europe  was  still 
trembling  and  France  had  not  yet  ceased  to 
bleed.  The  society  of  those  days  offered 
nothing  that  could  replace  the  ideal  which 
had  vanished  with  the  last  breath  of  the  Man 
of  St.  Helena,  and'  these  young  imaginations 
were  developed  in  a  baleful  state  of  ferment, 
placed  "  between  a  past  they  were  being 
taught  to  abhor  and  a  future  as  yet  impene- 
trable." For  some,  the  love  of  holy  liberty 
could  suffice  ;  to  others,  art,  with  its  feverish 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      15 

enthusiasms,  offered  momentary  relief  ;  but 
many  more, — tenderer  organisms,  tempera- 
ment more  easily  unhinged, — despondent  at 
having  come  "  too  late  into  too  old  a  world," 
had  now,  for  their  educator,  consoler,  motive 
force,  nothing  but  "  the  spirit  of  the  age,  angel 
of  the  twilight  which  is  neither  night  nor  day  ; 
they  found  him  sitting  upon  a  sack  of  lime 
full  of  bones,  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  the 
egoist  and  shivering  horribly  with  cold."  Of 
these,  the  rich  became  libertines,  while  others, 
deliberately  assuming  a  semblance  of  enthu- 
siasm which  found  its  expression  in  loud- 
sounding  words,  flung  themselves  into  a 
troubled  sea  of  aimless  action  ; — "  but  there 
was  none  who  did  not,  on  coming  home  at 
night,  feel  bitterly  the  emptiness  of  his  life 
and  the  poverty  of  his  hands." 

In  the  literature  of  the  first  quarter  of  the 
century  there  was,  alas  !  nothing  to  snatch 
these  young  souls  from  the  horror  of  this 
despair.  Of  the  three  men  who  moulded  the 
thoughts  of  those  years,  from  1810  to  1830, 
— Goethe,  Chateaubriand,  and  Byron, — none 
had  been  able  to  escape  the  deathly  power 
of  this  moral  Juggernaut.  If  the  author  of 
"  Attala,"  in  the  bitterness  of  disappointed 
ambition,  "  wrapped  the  repulsive  idol  in  his 


1 6      A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSE7\ 

Pilgrim's  cloak,  and  set  it  upon  an  altar  of 
marble,"  Goethe,  rich,  happy,  at  his  ease,  did 
not  hesitate  to  depict,  in  "  Werther,"  the 
passion  that  leads  to  suicide,  and  to  trace,  in 
"  Faust,"  the  lineaments  of  the  most  lurid 
human  figure  that  ever  stood  for  evil  and 
misfortune.  Byron,  and  Byron  alone,  flung 
to  the  echoes  the  cry  of  an  anguish  he  had 
lived,  and  "  suspended  Manfred  over  the 
abyss  as  though  the  answer  to  the  hideous 
enigma  which  surrounded  him  were — annihil- 
ation." Art  itself,  eschewing  the  calming 
influences  of  the  classic  era,  felt,  during  the 
incipient  stages  of  its  transformation,  the 
throbbings  and  writhings  of  this  great  social 
agony.  The  eighteenth  century  having 
worked  a  total  wreck  of  memories,  beliefs,  and 
institutions,  the  nineteenth  was  slow  to  restore 
these  scattered  ruins.  The  peasant  and  the 
artisan  alone,  the  chains  of  their  bondage  cast 
to  the  four  winds,  gloated  over  the  long- 
coveted  soil  and  the  implements  of  emanci- 
pated labor, — but  the  offspring  of  an  ancient 
lineage,  the  young  noble,  bereft  of  all  his 
privileges,  saw  no  place  left  for  him  under  the 
sun,  and  found  but  one  door  open — a  wide 
and  singularly  tempting  portal, — the  door  of 
facile  pleasures. 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      \1 

How  strange  must  this  picture  appear, — 
almost  fictitious  in  our  times  and  in  this 
country — a  land  of  infinite  possibilities,  an 
era  of  prodigally  expended  energy  !  How 
difficult  it  is  for  one  who  has  not  given  some 
years  of  his  life  to  a  retrospective  study  of  the 
condition  of  Europe  prior  to  1830,  to  account 
for  the  existence,  at  that  time,  of  so  many  gen- 
erous beings,  whose  vitality  and  vigor,  and  the 
source  of  whose  activity,  were  completely 
unenlightened  as  to  either  their  own  aims  or 
the  direction  of  their  probable  issues  ! 

Hence  the  strange  and  irrational  Grecian 
campaign  to  which  may  be  distinctly  traced 
the  origin  of  that  still  gaping  wound,  the 
Eastern  Question  ;  hence,  too, — from  these 
chaotic  conditions  hard  to  understand  at  this 
distance  of  time, — blighted  lives  like  those 
of  Byron  and  of  Musset,  and  hundreds  of 
other  abortive  existences,  humbler  victims  to 
that  "crack,"  as  Alphonse  Daudet  would 
ingeniously  name  it,  through  which,  day 
after  day,  energies  and  ambitions  leaked 
irremediably. 

In  the  case  of  Alfred  de  Musset  it  may 
be  truly  said  that  this  disillusion  of  mind 
and  heart  were  not  due  to  any  insensible 
process  of  intellectual  and  moral  disintegra- 
tion ;  he  had  breathed  it  with  the  atmosphere 


l8     A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

in  which  it  was  his  lot  to  be  born,  and  to 
such  surroundings  his  delicate  temperament 
could  not  be  exposed  without  fatal  results. 

Our  poet  was  still  very  young  when  he 
sought  in  literature  some  relief  from  his  mys- 
terious and  unexplained  mental  torments. 
The  exclusive  study  of  philosophy  had 
attracted,  without  captivating,  him ;  some 
efforts  in  the  direction  of  a  medical  career 
had  only  produced  disgust.  A  volume  of 
Andre  Che"nier,  eagerly  perused  in  1828, 
elicited  its  first  notes  from  his  young  lyre. 
This  "  Elegie,"  judged  by  its  author  un- 
worthy of  publication,  was  followed  by  a 
short  romantic  drama — likewise  unpublished 
—in  which  there  manifested  itself  the  some- 
what oppressive  influence  of  the  new  art  cul- 
tus  whose  high  priest  was  Victor  Hugo,  and 
whose  devotees  were  Vigny,  Me"rimee, 
Sainte  Beuve,  Deschamps,  and  many  minor 
luminaries.  Finally,  Musset  published,  in 
the  same  year,  a  lengthy  paraphrase  of  de 
Quincey's  "  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater," 
— strange  pastime  for  any  but  this  impres- 
sionable and  melancholy  youth  !  In  1830, 
appeared  the  "Contes  d'Espagne  et  d'ltalie," 
the  first  volume  which  saw  the  light  under 
the  name  of  Alfred  de  Musset.  These 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      19 

verses  are  now  inserted  at  the  beginning  of 
his  collected  poetical  works,  preceded  by  a 
charming  sonnet,  dated  1840,  and  ending 
with  the  following  words,  so  expressive  in 
their  simple  eloquence : 

"  Mes  premiers  vers  sont  d'un  enfant, 
Les  seconds  d'un  adolescent, 
Les  derniers  a  peine  d'un  homme." 

It  is,  nevertheless,  easy  to  perceive,  in 
these  first  efforts,  precociously  perfect  in 
form  and  in  originality  of  idea,  that  good 
sense  which  had  guided  the  lad  even  amid 
the  extravagant  exuberance  of  the  Ce'nacle  of 
Victor  Hugo.  One  cannot  help  recognizing 
that  before  attaining  his  majority  he  had 
already  constructed  for  himself  an  indepen- 
dent theory  of  poetic  expression,  and  that  he 
would  accept  no  advice,  nor  follow  the  foot- 
steps of  any  one,  from  the  day  when,  after 
having  taken  much  thought  and  listened  well 
to  the  measures  of  others,  he  should  utter 
the  cry  of  Correggio, — "  I,  too,  am  a  poet !  " 

The  charming  writer,  who,  for  long  after 
the  death  of  a  fondly  loved  brother,  sus- 
tained the  literary  reputation  of  the  Mus- 
sets,  depicts  with  much  verve  the  remarkable 


20      A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUbSKT. 

transformations  which  our  hero  underwent 
at  this  period.  "  Manhood  had  come.  At 
the  time  of  his  debut,  the  winter  before, 
women  had  paid  no  attention  to  this  little 
fellow  who  would  conscientiously  go  through 
the  steps  his  dancing-master  had  taught  him  ; 
but  in  a  few  months  his  figure  developed  ; 
he  lost  his  childish  look,  his  timid  manner. 
His  face  almost  suddenly  assumed  a  marked 
expression  of  assurance  and  pride  ;  his  look 
became  so  firm,  so  full  of  question  and  curi- 
osity, that  people  could  hardly  bear  his  gaze 
with  indifference."  It  was  at  about  this 
period  that  Prosper  Chalais  said  of  the  pre- 
cocious young  writer  :  "  Seeing  him  with  that 
face  of  his,  that  eagerness  for  the  pleasures 
of  the  world,  that  air  of  a  young  colt  let 
loose,  and  noting  the  looks  he  directed 
towards  women  and  their  answering  glances, 
I  feared  for  him  at  the  hands  of  the 
Dalilahs." 

They  came — the  sorceresses  !  The  poet 
succumbed  to  their  incantations ;  but  his 
raptures  of  delight,  his  cries  of  anguish,  his 
imprecations,  he  has  known  how  to  embody 
in  some  of  the  finest  verses  written  in  any 
language,— lines  traced  with  his  heart's 
blood,  and  of  which  he  could  himself  say  : 
"  Rien  ne  nous  rend  si  grands  qu'tine  grande  douleur.  " 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      21 

Legend,  which  begins  so  soon  to  graft 
itself  upon  the  true  story  of  famous  lives, 
was  not  to  spare  Musset.  It  must  perforce 
make  of  him,  in  the  eyes  of  his  contem- 
poraries, and,  still  more,  in  the  eyes  of  their 
posterity,  a  man  of  insatiable  appetites,  of 
depraved  and  overmastering  impulses, — in  a 
word,  the  victim  of  a  most  deplorable  moral 
bent.  Many  witnesses  present  themselves, 
on  the  other  hand,  either  to  deny,  or  to  ex- 
plain, the  arraignment,  so  cruelly  magnified. 
Some,  in  a  rather  clumsy  attempt  to  palliate 
a  sadly  disastrous  course  of  life,  have  alleged 
a  violent  attachment  blighted,  an  imperious 
need  of  forgetting,  at  all  risks  and  at  all 
costs,  an  incurable  sorrow  in  which,  they  say, 
the  poet  would  have  foolishly  made  ship- 
wreck of  his  life's  peace  and  the  honor  of  his 
memory.  That  there  had  been,  in  the  youth 
of  Musset,  a  page  the  recollection  of  which 
was  never  effaced,  can  hardly  be  questioned. 
The  strange  effusions,  half  romances  half 
panegyrics — published  under  the  several 
titles  of  "  Elle  et  Lui,"  by  Madame  George 
Sand,  "  Lui  et  Elle,"  by  Paul  de  Musset,  and 
"  Lui,"  by  Madame  Louise  Collet,  have  given 
this  adventure  of  two  great  minds  setting  at 
naught  the  restraints  of  society  a  celebrity 
so  wide  as  to  leave  no  room  for  any  absolute 


22      A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

denial.  Musset  himself,  in  his  "  Confession 
d'un  enfant  du  Siecle,"  which  it  would  be  a 
mistake  to  accept  in  its  integrity  as  an  auto- 
biography, has  painted  woman  with  such  bit- 
terness, and  deceit  with  such  horror,  that  we 
can,  and  ought  to,  find  in  this  admirable 
book,  which  appeared  in  1836,  the  distinct 
echo  of  that  famous  sojourn  in  Italy,  and  of 
the  time  when  Indiana  and  Rolla  drank 
together  from  the  cup  of  forbidden  delights 
and  of  inevitable  disenchantment. 

But,  I  repeat,  this  unhappy  passion,  which 
wrung  from  the  poet  the  violent  objurgations 
of  "  La  Nuit  de  Mai  "  and  the  "  Lettre  a 
Lamartine,"  was  destined  in  a  few  years  to 
witness  the  disappearance  of  the  very  last 
traces  of  its  own  first  fervor.  To  say  that 
Musset  died  in  1857  from  the  consequences 
of  a  despair  which  dated  from  1836  is  noth- 
ing less  than  an  insult  to  the  reader's  intelli- 
gence. How  much  more  simple  is  it  to  ad- 
mit that  the  poet's  tenderness  of  heart,  his 
abnormally  excited  sensibility,  his  mental 
energy  strained  to  the  utmost  limit  of  its 
power,  were  necessarily  to  triumph  over  the 
frailty  of  a  constitution  ill-fitted  by  nature  to 
withstand  the  shocks  of  so  many  emotions 
and  so  many  struggles.  To  relegate  to  the 
ranks  of  the  vulgar  debauchees  the  author  of 


A   FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      23 

"  1'Espoir  en  Dieu,"  "  Rolla,"  and  the  "  Nuits  " 
is  to  violate  the  laws  of  plain  good  sense  as 
well  as  those  of  common  decency  ;  it  is,  in  a 
word  to  calumniate  Nature  by  admitting  the 
possibility  of  her  sending  such  a  monster 
into  the  world  ; — a  soul  possessed  of  infinite 
ideality,  a  body  delighting  only  in  the  mire  of 
the  most  abject  vices. 

Beloved  poet !  How  cruelly  have  they  mis- 
understood you  who,  thinking  to  defend,  have 
thus  succeeded  in  darkening,  your  memory  ! 
How  much  easier  for  them,  how  much  more 
grateful  to  those  who  love  you  so  dearly — and 
they  are  counted  by  millions  in  the  smiling 
land  of  France — to  seek,  in  the  works  that 
came  all  palpitating  from  the  inmost  recesses 
of  your  heart,  the  true  key-note,  the  accu- 
rate repercussion,  of  your  passionate  desires  ! 
They  would  there  have  found  a  portraiture  of 
innocence,  the  work  of  a  hand  guided  by  the 
most  touching  veneration  ;  they  would  have 
been  moved  by  the  bitter,  poignant  lamenta- 
tions of  a  soul  widowed  of  faith,  and  incon- 
solable at  the  loss.  How  plainly  could  they 
have  discerned,  in  these  few  volumes, — slen- 
der but  precious  legacy  of  genius — the  living 
impress  of  the  poet's  innate  love  for  all  that  is 
good,  beautiful,  and  holy,  in  art,  in  thought, 
in  humanity  !  Of  how  slight  import  would 


24      A    FEW    WORDS  ABOU1    M 

then  have  been  the  vague  chatter  of  these 
gossips  about  the  possible  weaknesses  of  his 
life  !  How  contemptible,  how  vain,  how  crimi- 
nal would  it  have  appeared,  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  life-work  so  generously,  so 
faithfully  wrought  by  his  resounding  elo- 
quence and  unconquerable  sincerity  ! 

For  this  is  what  we  must  come  to  after  all, 
whenever  chance,  taking  pity  on  the  dull  actu- 
alities of  our  lives,  brings  us  into  the  presence 
of  one  of  those  beings,  anointed  with  holy  oil, 
who  speak  to  us  still  more  as  prophets  than 
as  poets.  If  they  address  us  in  a  language 
which  we  feel  to  be  the  only  true  language  ; 
if  each  word  that  falls  from  their  lips  sets  the 
most  secret  fibre  of  our  individuality  tremb- 
ling ;  if  the  inspirations  of  their  muse  awake 
in  us  that  something  already  seen,  already 
lived,  which  is  the  common  inheritance  of  all 
our  brothers  in  adversity  ;  if,  banishing  Rea- 
son, that  cold,  stingy  mistress,  they  dazzle 
our  eyes  with  visions  of  supreme  beauty  and 
unspeakable  delights  ;  if  forgetfulness  of  the 
present,  disdain  of  the  future  succeed,  thanks 
to  their  magic  incantation,  the  mortal  cares 
of  our  petty  daily  contrivings  ;  if,  in  one 
word,  they  know  how  to  prolong  and  to  gild 
our  dream — even  should  the  illusion  last  but 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      25 

one  hour,  the  voluptuous  trance  end  with 
the  first  stroke  of  the  clock,  an  eternal  de- 
spair follow  these  fleeting  delights  ; — if  these 
be  thy  gifts,  O  Poet,  blessed  be  thou  !  Thy 
cool  hand  has  been,  for  an  instant,  laid  upon 
the  burning  temples  of  the  fevered  creature, 
and  if  faith  has  not  been  restored  him — in  this 
age  of  burials  that  know  no  resurrection — 
thou  has  snatched  him,  for  one  never-to-be 
forgotten  instant,  from  the  implacable  brutal- 
ity of  facts,  and  moistened  his  dry  lips  at  the 
sacred  spring  of  the  beautiful  ! 

We  shall,  of  course,  be  told  of  morality, — 
of  that  artificial  association  of  ideas  swaying 
to  the  wind  of  all  the  caprices  of  humanity, — 
a  veritable  spectrum  of  fallacious  tints, — the 
shell  of  hypocrisy,  the  complaisant  cloak  of 
them  whose  god  is  Self,  and  their  prophet 
"  What  will  people  say  !  "  It  has  often  been 
remarked  that  trades'  unions  only  result  in  the 
despotism  of  the  mediocre  workman  over  his 
more  ingenious,  more  industrious,  and  more 
ambitious  competitor.  The  tiresome  cuckoo- 
cry,  which  to  the  imperious  needs  of  an  elect 
spirit  incessantly  opposes  the  precepts  of  a 
purely  mechanical  morality,  has  always 
seemed  to  us  the  exact  counterpart  of  the 
constitution  of  the  "  Knights  of  Labor." 
"  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  further," 


26      A   FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

says  the  man  of  feeble  ideas  and  narrow  vis- 
ion, the  conservative  of  himself  and  his  own 
special  order  of  things, — "  Outside  of  my 
conception  of  duty,  of  nature,  and  of  God, 
there  is  no  salvation  !  Ostracism  to  him  who 
departs  from  it  by  one  hair's-breadth  !  I  am 
the  irresistible  power  of  the  overwhelming 
majority." 

And  thus,  wrapping  himself  in  his  impec- 
cability, casting  a  satisfied  glance  at  his  own 
reflection  in  his  own  mirror — the  reflection  of 
an  imaginary  being — behold  the  "  moral 
man,"  crushing  with  his  assumption  of  scorn 
the  genius  who  goes  his  way,  ignoring  him. 
Death  by  stoning  is  not  yet  out  of  date,  and 
the  raileries,  the  insults,  the  calumnies  are 
neither  less  heavy  nor  less  murderous  than 
the  stones  that  crushed  St.  Stephen  at  Antioch. 
It  is  true  that  these  victims  rise  from  the 
grave  and  that  their  ultimate  triumph  is 
certain. 

Matthew  Arnold,  some  years  ago,  spoke  of 
that  handful  of  men,  which,  century  after  cen- 
tury, has  constantly  been  recruited  through- 
out the  whole  surface  of  the  globe,  and  which 
jealously  guards  the  torch  of  civilization  from 
the  attacks  of  the  vulgum  pecus.  For  them 
alone  is  life  permanent,  they  alone  triumph, 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      2^ 

not  in  their  own  generation  but  in  that  land 
of  promise  which  their  eyes  can  descry  upon 
the  horizon, — posterity.  To  them  belong 
all  self-denial,  all  mercy,  all  charity,  all 
grandeur  of  soul.  They  do  not  withhold  from 
the  poet,  whose  life  is  an  agony — whom  the 
"  moral  man "  fears  and  keeps  at  a  dis- 
tance,— the  sacrament  of  their  love.  Of  the 
women  of  genius, — the  Sapphos,  the  Eliots, 
the  Sands, — they  do  not  demand  a  recital  of 
their  hidden  miseries  ;  these  women  have 
sung  their  part  in  the  splendid  hymn  of  regen- 
eration, have  been  the  inspiring  Muses,  the 
consoling  nurses,  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  of 
saddened  humanity. — Enter,  sisters,  into  the 
Paradise  of  lofty  souls  !  And  ye,  our  sorely- 
tried  brethren,  who  found  nowhere  but  in 
the  devastating  tempests  of  your  own  sick 
hearts  that  repose  for  which  those  hearts  felt 
such  gnawing  hunger  ;  ye  mighty  and  tender 
poets  ; — Byron,  Heine,  Musset,  wondrous 
and  touching  triad  who  have  lulled  our 
generation  to  the  searching  measures  of  your 
song-stories,  who  have  shown  it  Truth  crushed 
beneath  her  new  load  of  desolation,  yet  still 
glorious  in  her  own  incorruptible  naked- 
ness ; — enter  with  lofty  front,  as  ye  were 
wont  to  walk  on  earth,  into  that  supreme 
Walhalla  where  sit  enthroned,  in  the  majesty 


28      A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

of  deified  genius,  Homer,  and  Shakespeare, 
and  Rabelais,  and  Goethe,  great  sinners, 
without  doubt, — great  sinners,  but,  beyond 
all,  and  above  all — men. 

Whilst  the  pestilent  dogmatic  horde  of  the 
Philistines  yet  rage  without  ceasing  against 
this  exalted  victim,  there  have  been  found, 
nevertheless,  many  men  of  intellect,  some 
high-placed  in  the  commonwealth  of  letters, 
to  limn  the  portrait,  more  or  less  finished,  but 
always  piously  sympathetic,  of  Alfred  de 
Musset.  The  inimitable  Sainte  Beuve  found, 
in  his  "Causeries  du  Lundi,"  in  speaking  of 
his  illustrious  friend,  that  inspiration  which 
once  prompted  him  to  write,  "  There  are, 
in  every  man,  the  ashes  of  a  dead  poet, 
whose  survivor  is  the  man."  In  his  •'  Sou- 
venirs litteraires,"  Maxime  du  Camp  refused 
to  indorse  the  opprobrious  indictment  put 
forward  against  the  memory  of  Musset  ; 
while  names  less  illustrious — Paul  Fpucher, 
Arsene  Houssaye,  Alberic  Second,  Clau- 
din — did  honor  to  their  own  reputation  as 
men  of  feeling  and  as  charming  writers  by 
their  tender  treatment  of  the  departed  poet. 

Lastly,  the  "  Souvenirs  de  Madame  Jau- 
bert,"  by  letting  us  into  the  secret  of  one  of 
the  most  delicate,  of  one  of  the  most  const?  .it 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      29 

attachments  which  ever  existed  between  an 
ardently  emotional  man  and  an  enthusiasti- 
cally affectionate  and  chaste  woman,  have 
revealed  to  us  a  deeply  touching  page  of  this 
tormented  life,  rendered  fragrant  by  the  sweet 
presence  of  "the  godmother." 

For  the  path  of  Alfred  de  Musset  was 
brightened  by  a  woman  of  noblest  character 
and  loftiest  intelligence,  to  whom  it  was 
given  to  conquer  this  ultra-nervous  nature 
without  the  allurement  of  illicit  love,  and  who 
became,  throughout  his  whole  life,  the  sister 
of  his  soul.  Her  playful  gravity,  the  wisdom 
of  her  counsels,  had  won  for  her  from  her 
grown-up  child  the  gracious  appellation  of 
''Godmother";  and,  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  that  soft  hand  succeeded  in  divert- 
ing from  some  regrettable  folly  him  whom 
her  light  fancy  named  "her  dear  Damis." 
A  sonnet  published  long  after  his  death 
responds  with  loving  reproach  to  some  such 
effort,  and  pictures  to  us  some  of  the  poet's 
tenderness  toward  his  gentle  friend  : 

"  .  .  Vous  qui  connaissez  mon  ame  tout  entiere, 
A  qui  je  n'ai  jamaisrien  tu,  meme  un  chagrin, 
Est-ce  a  vous  de  me  faire  une  telle  injustice  ?" 

Had  there  been  in  his  life  no  other  besides 
this  lovely  and  unique  relation,  what  injustice 


30      A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

were  it  to  speake  of  Mussel  as  of  some  God- 
forsaken creature  whose  lyre  answered  only 
to  the  impulses  of  the  foulest  and  most  lasci- 
vious thoughts  !  But  one  other  love,  equally 
puissant,  whole,  and  imperishable,  has  made 
manifest  to  the  eyes  of  the  world  the  warmth 
of  heart,  the  faithfulness  of  instinct,  the  last- 
ing tenderness,  which  were  of  the  essence  of 
this  noble  nature.  I  am  not  speaking  here  of 
the  long-enduring  passion,  so  ill  requited,  of 
which  George  Sand  was  the  object, — that 
bond,  so  shaken  and  tossed,  of  two  ill-balanced 
existences, — but  of  the  union,  so  intimate,  so 
absolute,  which  lasted  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave,  between  Alfred  and  his  brother  Paul. 
An  admirable  work,  the  "  Biographic  d'Alfred 
de  Musset,"  is  the  monument  erected  to  the 
memory  of  this  irreplaceable  affection,  an 
affection  of  which  Alfred  wrote  : 

"  Je  ne  sais  ou  va  mon  chemin, 

Mais  je  marche  mieux  quand  ta  main 
Serre  la  mienne.' 

And  the  same  hand,  whilst  drawing,  in  such 
minute  detail,  the  picture  of  a  too-short  life, 
has  painted  us,  in  sober  and  well-chosen 
colors,  one  of  the  most  exact  and  intense 
psychological  studies  of  our  times.  Here  are 
no  striving  after  effect,  no  heavy  and  useless 


A    FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      & 

German  excursus,  but  a  sequence  of  facts,  al- 
most bare  of  comment,  which  make  their 
weight  felt  by  sheer  logical  force.  And  if  a 
brother's  tenderness  has  shielded  against  an 
over-severe  criticism  the  venial  errors  of  the 
vanished  poet,  the  proud  love  of  truth  which 
is  characteristic  of  the  Mussels  breathes 
freely  and  fearlessly  throughout  the  whole  of 
this  powerful  volume. 

Time,  that  flies  so  fast  in  this  steam-cen- 
tury, has  already  given  its  full  and  favorable 
verdict  for  the  author  of  the  "  Biographic," 
as  it  has  accorded  to  Alfred  de  Musset  his 
rightful  place  among  the  great  names  of  our 
age.  On  the  stag^e,  the  light,  semi-dramatic 
studies  which  our  poet  always  regarded 
rather  as  pastime  than  as  serious  work, 
those  proverbes,  saynetes^  short  pieces,  so  pe- 
culiar in  coloring,  and  yet  so  exact  in  their 
philosophic  deductions,  have  taken  rank 
among  the  brightest  jewels  of  the  Comedie 
Frangaise.  The  two  volumes  of  poems  are 
upon  every  table  and  in  every  heart,  and  pre- 
side over  the  development  of  innocent  loves 
as  they  rule  the  fiery  outbursts  of  riper  pas- 
sions. Here  the  heedless  young  student  and 
the  savant  grown  gray  in  learned  vigils,  find 
themselves  participating  in  thoughts  worthy 
of  the  one  and  the  other,  and  if  "  Namouna," 


32      A   FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET. 

"  Mardoche  "  and  "  Don  Paez  "  offer  no  food 
for  reflection  of  the  abstract  order,  "  Rolla," 
the  "  Espoir  en  Dieu,"  the  "  Souvenir  cles 
Alpes,"  more  than  one  sonnet,  at  once  dainty 
and  profound,  carry  our  minds  away  to  the 
land  of  dreams  not  yet  ended  and  beliefs  not 
yet  perfected. 

Still  other  poems, — the  "  Ode  a  la  Mali- 
bran,"  a  Une  bonne  Fortune,"  Le  Rhin  Al- 
lemand," — possess  a  swing,  a  swagger,  an 
elegance  of  finish  and  force  of  sentiment  that 
few  French  bards  have  ever  equalled. 

Thus,  seizing  the  soul  on  all  sides  at  once, 
— the  tender,  the  sportive,  the  intellectual, 
sometimes  the  voluptuous,  but  only  in  its 
adorably  melancholy  key, — Musset  has  pos- 
sessed the  youth  of  France,  and,  if  he  has  not 
been  able  to  snatch  it  altogether  from  the 
putrescent  influence  of  an  all-pervading  ego- 
ism, has,  at  least,  opened  for  it  a  sunlit  vista 
fading  to  the  realms  of  the  ideal. 

These  poems  have  never,  in  our  opinion, 
received  at  the  hands  of  English  translators 
a  treatment  sufficiently  favorable  to  enable 
those  of  our  fellow-countrymen  to  whom  the 
riches  of  the  French  language  are  as  in  a 
locked  treasure-house  to  appreciate  the  extra- 
ordinary power  exercised  by  Musset  on  his 
own  times  and  his  own  people. 


A   FEW    WORDS  ABOUT  MUSSET.      33 

A  few  comedies  alone — among  which  "  The 
Caprice  "  holds  the  place  of  honor  ; — a  few 
cleverly  written  and  quaintly  colored  tales, 
have,  so  far,  in  their  English  garb,  given  but 
a  vague  and  indistinct  conception  of  the  great 
poet. 

In  publishing,  therefore,  the  three  novel- 
ettes and  the  short  play  which  follow  these 
somewhat  disjointed  remarks,  the  editor  has 
been  prompted  by  a  sentiment  of  profound 
veneration  for  the  memory  of  this  great 
author,  and  ventures  to  hope  that  the  glory 
of  that  memory  shall  have  nothing  to  suffer 
from  a  tribute  of  so  little  value. 

"  Je  veux  quand  on  m'a  lu  qu'on  puisse  me  relire," 

wrote  the  master  in  his  closing  sonnet. 

The  editor  of  this  tiny  volume  can  wisft  his 
indulgent  reader  no  higher  enjoyment  than 
to  re-read,  one  day,  Mussel's  every  line  in  the 
language  he  himself  loved  so  well. 

.E.  DE  V.  VERMONT. 
NEW  YORK,  ist  November,  1888. 


MARGOT, 


MARGOT. 

IN  a  large  gothic  house  of  the  Rue  du 
Perche,  in  the  Marais  quarter  of  Paris,  lived, 
in  1804,  an  old  lady,  well  known  and  beloved 
in  all  that  neighborhood.  She  was  called  Ma- 
dame Doradour.  She  was  a  woman  of  the 
olden  time,  belonging,  not  to  the  court,  but 
to  the  good  "bourgeoisie";  rich,  devout, 
cheerful  and  charitable.  She  led  a  very  re- 
tired life  ;  her  only  occupation  being  to  dis- 
tribute alms,  and  to  play  "  Boston  "  with  her 
neighbors.  She  dined  at  two  o'clock,  and 
supped  at  nine.  She  hardly  ever  went  out 
except  to  go  to  church  and  take  an  occa- 
sional short, walk  around  the  Place  Royale 
as  she  came  back.  In  a  word,  she  had  pre- 
served the  customs,  and  almost  the  dress,  of 
her  time,  caring  but  little  for  the  present, 
reading  her  prayer-book  rather  than  the  news- 
papers, leaving  the  world  to  go  its  way,  and 
thinking  only  of  dying  in  peace. 

As  she  was  fond  of  talk,  and  even,  per- 
haps, a  little  garrulous,  she  had  always  kept 
37 


38  M ARGOT. 

with  her,  during  twenty  years  of  widowhood, 
a  lady  companion.  That  lady — or  rather  old 
maid — who  never  left  her,  had  soon  grown  to 
be  a  friend.  The  two  were  always  together,  at 
mass,  on  the  promenade,  at  the  fireside. 
Mademoiselle  Ursule  kept  the  keys  of  the 
cellar,  of  the  linen  presses,  even  of  the  bu- 
reau. She  was  a  tall,  dried-up  maiden,  of  a 
masculine  appearance,  speaking  with  the  tip 
of  her  tongue,  very  imperious  and  somewhat 
ill-tempered.  Madame  Doradour — quite  a 
little  body — would,  as  she  prattled  along, 
hang  on  to  the  arm  of  the  ugly  creature,  call- 
ing her  "  my  good  one,"  and  allowing  herself 
to  be  kept,  as  it  were,  in  leading-strings.  She 
blindly  confided  in  her  favorite,  and  had  even 
written  her  down  in  her  will  for  a  large 
amount.  Mademoiselle  Ursule,  mindful  of 
this,  professed  to  love  her  mistress  better 
than  herself,  and  never  spoke  of  her  without 
looking  heavenwards  with  sighs  qf  gratitude. 
It  goes  without  saying  that  Mademoiselle 
Ursule  was  the  real  mistress  of  that  house. 
Whilst  Madame  Doradour,  ensconced  on  her 
lounge  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room, 
was  busy  with  her  knitting,  Mademoiselle 
Ursule,  the  keys  at  her  side,  would  parade 
majestically  through  the  rooms,  bang  the 
doors,  pay  the  tradesmen,  and  cause  the  ser- 


M ARGOT.  39 

vants  to  execrate  her  under  their  breath. 
But  as  soon  as  the  dinner  hour  struck,  ov 
when  company  came  in,  she  would  make  her 
appearance  with  due  timidity,  clad  in  a  dark, 
unassuming  dress.  She  bowed  down  with 
compunction,  knew  how  to  keep  herself  at 
the  proper  distance,  and  how  to  make  a  show 
of  abdication.  At  church  no  one  prayed 
more  devoutly  or  cast  down  the  eyes  lower 
than  she  ;  if  Madame  Doradour,  whose  piety 
was  sincere,  happened  to  take  a  nap  in  the 
middle  of  the  sermon,  Mademoiselle  Ursule 
would  touch  her  elbow, — and  the  preacher 
felt  quite  pleased.  Madame  Doradour  had 
tenants,  lawyers,  farmers :  Mademoiselle 
Ursule  audited  the  accounts,  and  in  every 
law-squabble  showed  herself  incomparable. 
There  was  not,  thanks  to  her,  a  speck  of  dust 
throughout  the  whole  house  ;  all  was  clean, 
neat,  scoured,  brushed,  the  furniture  in  per- 
fect order,  the  linen  snow-white,  the  china 
like  a  mirror,  the  clocks  regulated.  Our 
housekeeper  needed  all  this  so  that  she 
could  scold  at  her  ease  and  reign  in  all  her 
glory. 

To  speak  the  truth,  Madame  Doradour  was 
not  blind  to  the  defects  of  her  "  good  friend," 
but  never,  in  all  her  life,  had  she  realized 
aught  but  the  good  in  this  world.  Evil  never 


4°  M ARGOT. 

seemed  quite  clear  to  her  :  she  endured  with- 
out understanding  it.  Moreover,  habit  had 
full  sway  over  the  old  dame.  Had  she  not, 
for  twenty  years,  leaned  on  Mademoiselle 
Ursule's  arm,  and  had  they  not,  for  just  as 
long  a  period,  taken  their  morning  coffee 
together.  When  her  protegee  screamed  too 
loudly,  Madame  Doradour  stopped  her  knit- 
ting, raised  her  head,  and  asked,  in  her  little 
flute-like  voice,  "What  is  the  matter,  my  good 
one  ? "  But  the  "  good  one  "  did  not  always 
deign  to  answer,  or,  if  she  entered  into  expla- 
nation, she  managed  it  in  such  a  way  that 
Madame  Doradour,  very  soon  resuming  her 
knitting,  hummed  a  little  tune  so  as  to  hear 
no  more. 

All  of  a  sudden  it  was  discovered,  after  such 
a  long  period  of  confidence,  that  Mademoiselle 
Ursule  was  deceiving  everybody  ;  her  mis- 
tress to  begin  with.  Not  only  did  she  make 
an  income  out  of  the  expenses  of  the  house, 
but,  anticipating  the  will,  she  appropriated  to 
herself  clothes,  linen,  and  even  jewelry.  As 
impunity  emboldens,  she  went  so  far  as  to 
steal  a  diamond  casket,  of  which,  it  is  true, 
Madame  Doradour  did  not  make  any  use, 
but  which,  since  time  immemorial,  she  had 
preserved,  with  respect,  in  her  drawer,  as  a 
souvenir  of  her  lost  charms.  Madame  Do- 


M ARGOT.  41 

radour  refused  to  give  up  to  the  courts  a 
woman  she  loved  so  well ;  she  simply  sent 
her  away  from  the  house,  refusing  to  see  her 
a  last  time  ;  and  then  she  found  herself  sud- 
denly in  so  cruel  a  solitude,  that  she  shed  the 
bitterest  tears.  In  spite  of  her  piety  she 
could  not  help  bemoaning  the  instability  of 
earthly  things,  and  the  pitiless  caprices  of 
fate,  which  does  not  respect  even  an  old  and 
kindly  deception. 

One  of  her  good  neighbors,  Mr.  Despre"s, 
having  come  to  console  her,  she  asked  his 
advice  : 

"  What  will  become  of  me  now  ? "  said  she 
to  him.  "  I  cannot  live  alone  ;  where  shall  I 
find  a  new  friend  ?  The  one  I  have  just  lost 
was  so  dear  to  me,  and  I  was  so  well  accus- 
tomed to  her,  that  in  spite  of  the  sad  way  in 
which  she  has  rewarded  my  affections,  I  am 
actually  regretting  her  departure.  Who  will 
answer  for  the  next  one  ?  What  confidence 
shall  I  be  able  to  place  in  an  entire  stran- 
ger ?" 

"  The  misfortune  from  which  you  suffer," 
answered  Mr.  Despres,  "  would  be  very  de- 
plorable if  it  caused  a  soul  like  yours  to 
doubt  virtue.  There  are,  in  this  world,  some 
wretches  and  a  great  many  hypocrites,  but 
there  are  also  honest  people.  Take  another 


42  M ARGOT. 

lady  companion,  not  choosing  her  lightly,  nor 
being  influenced  by  too  many  scruples.  Your 
confidence  has  been  deceived  once  ;  that  is 
just  the  reason  why  it  should  not  be  deceived 
a  second  time." 

"  I  believe  that  you  are  right,"  replied 
Madame  Doradour  ;  "  but  I  am  very  sad  and 
much  embarrassed.  I  know  so  few  people  in 
Paris.  Could  you  not  render  me  the  service 
of  looking  up  references,  and  of  finding  for 
me  an  honest  girl,  who  would  be  well  treated 
here,  and  could,  at  least,  lend  me  her  arm  to 
go  to  St.  Francois  d'Assise  ?" 

Mr.  Despres,  being  also  a  denizen  of  the 
Marais,  was  neither  very  quick,  nor  widely 
acquainted.  He  began  his  quest,  however, 
and,  a  few  days  later,  Madame  Doradour  had 
a  new  companion,  to  whom,  at  the  end  of  two 
months,  she  had  given  all  her  love  ;  for  she 
was  as  fickle  as  she  was  good.  But  it  took 
her  hardly  three  months  more  to  send  away 
the  new-comer ;  not  as  dishonest,  but  as 
little  honest.  .  Here  was  a  second  cause  of 
grief  for  Madame  Doradour.  She  desired  to 
make  a  new  choice,  applied  to  all  her  neigh- 
bors, even  answered  advertisements — and 
found  herself  no  more  fortunate.  Dis- 
couragement overwhelmed  her.  One  saw 
then  the  good  lady,  leaning  on  her  cane, 


M ARGOT.  43 

going  to  church  all  alone  :  she  had  resolved, 
said  she,  to  finish  her  days  without  the  help 
of  any  one,  and  she  tried,  in  public,  to  carry 
cheerfully  her  sadness  and  her  years.  But 
her  limbs  trembled  as  she  went  up  the  stair- 
case,— for  she  was  seventy  years  old  ;  and 
you  could  have  found  her  in  the  evening, 
near  the  fire,  her  hands  folded,  and  her  head 
bent  down.  She  could  not  endure  solitude  ; 
her  health,  already  weak,  showed  a  marked 
change  ;  little  by  little  she  fell  into  deep 
melancholy. 

She  had  an  only  son,  named  Gaston,  who 
had  early  embraced  the  profession  of  arms, 
and  who  was  at  that  time  garrisoned  some- 
where. She  wrote  to  him  concerning  her 
trouble,  and  begged  him  to  come  to  her  help 
in  her  great  wearisomeness.  Gaston  tenderly 
loved  his  mother  ;  he  asked  for  a  furlough 
and  obtained  it ;  but  the  place  of  his  gar- 
rison was,  unhappily,  the  city  of  Strasbourg, 
where  are  found,  as  everybody  knows,  a 
great  abundance  of  the  prettiest  grisettes  of 
France.  It  is  there  only  that  one  admires 
those  German  brunettes,  in  whom  the  Saxon 
languor  is  blended  with  a  French  vivacity. 
Gaston  was  in  the  good  graces  of  two  pretty 
tobacconists,  who  refused  to  let  him  go  ;  he 
vainly  attempted  to  persuade  them,  even 


44  M ARGOT. 

showed  them  his  mother's  letter  ;  but  they 
gave  him  so  many  bad  reasons  that  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  convinced,  and  de- 
layed his  departure  from  day  to  day. 

In  the  mean  time,  poor  Madame  Doradour 
fell  seriously  ill.  She  was  born  so  merry,  and 
grief  was  so  unnatural  to  her,  that  it  turned 
into  a  disease.  The  doctor  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  "  Leave  me,"  she  said,  "  I  want 
to  die  alone.  Since  all  I  loved  have  aban- 
doned me,  why  should  I  wish  to  retain 
a  remnant  of  life  for  which  no  one 
cares  ? " 

The  deepest  sadness  reigned  through  the 
house,  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  piti- 
ful disorder.  The  servants,  seeing  their  mis- 
tress at  the  point  of  death,  and  knowing  her 
will  to  be  made,  began  to  neglect  her.  Dust 
invaded  the  rooms,  once  so  well  kept,  and 
covered  the  furniture,  once  so  neatly  ar- 
ranged. "  O  my  dear  Ursule,"  cried  out 
Madame  Doradour,  "  my  good  one,  where 
are  you,  to  drive  these  wretches  away  ?" 

One  day  when  she  was  at  her  worst,  her 
people  saw  her,  with  astonishment,  sit  up 
suddenly  in  bed,  throw  open  the  curtains, 
and  put  on  her  spectacles.  She  held  in  her 
hands  a  letter  just  brought  in,  and  which  she 
unfolded  with  the  greatest  care.  At  the  top 


MARGO  T.  45 

of  the  sheet  there  was  a  beautiful  engraving, 
representing  the  Temple  of  Friendship,  with 
an  altar  in  the  middle  and  two  burning  hearts 
on  the  altar.  The  letter  was  written  in  a  big 
childish  hand,  the  words  in  perfectly  straight 
lines,  with  fine  flourishes  all  around  the  capital 
letters.  It  was  a  New  Year's  compliment, 
and  was  indicted  somewhat  in  this  fashion  : 

"  MADAME  AND  DEAR  GODMOTHER  : 

"  It  is  to  wish  you  a  good  and  happy 
year  that  I  take  the  pen  for  all  the  family, 
being  the  only  one  of  us  who  can  write. 
Papa,  mamma  and  my  brothers  wish  you  the 
same.  We  have  learned  that  you  are  ill  and 
we  pray  God  that  He  may  preserve  you,  as 
He  will  certainly  do.  I  take  the  liberty  of 
sending  with  this  some  preserves,  and  I  am 
with  much  respect  and  attachment, 

Your  goddaughter  and  servant, 

MARGUERITE  PIE"DELEU." 

Having  read  this  letter,  Madame  Doradour 
put  it  under  her  pillow.  She  had  Mr.  Des- 
pres  call  at  once,  and  dictated  her  answer  to 
him.  No  one  in  the  house  was  told  anything 
about  it,  but,  as  soon  as  the  answer  was  gone, 
the  sick  lady  appeared  more  quiet,  and,  a 
few  days  later,  you  would  have  found  her  as 
cheerful  and  as  well  as  ever. 


46  M ARGOT. 

II. 

The  goodman  Piedeleu  was  from  the 
province  of  Beauce  ;  there  he  had  spent  his 
life,  and  there  he  fully  intended  to  die.  He 
was  the  old  and  honest  farmer  of  the  estate 
of  la  Honville,  near  Chartres,  an  estate  be- 
longing to  Madame  Doradour.  He  never 
in  his  life  had  seen  either  a  forest  or  a 
mountain,  having  left  his  farm  only  to  visit 
the  neighboring  city  ;  and  Beauce,  as  every 
one  knows,  is  but  one  immense  plain.  It 
is  true  that  he  had  seen  a  river,  the  Eure, 
which  flowed  near  his  house.  As  for  the 
sea,  he  believed  in  it  as  he  did  in  Paradise, — 
that  is  to  say,  he  thought  one  must  first 
go  and  see  it.  Thus  did  he  find  in  this 
world  but  three  things  worthy  of  admiration  : 
the  Cathedral-steeple  at  Chartres,  a  hand- 
some girl,  and  a  fine  wheat-field.  His 
erudition  consisted  simply  in  knowing  that 
it  is  warm  in  summer,  cold  in  winter,  and 
that  the  market-price  of  grain  is  subject  to 
fluctuation.  But  when,  in  the  midday  sun, 
at  the  hour  when  the  husbandmen  take  their 
rest,  the  worthy  farmer  left  his  broad  farm- 
yard to  speak  a  few  kind  words  to  his  crops, 
it  was  a  great  treat  to  see  his  massive  form 
stand  out  against  the  horizon.  It  seemed 


M ARGOT.  47 

then  that  the  blades  of  wheat  stood  up 
straighter  and  prouder  than  before,  that  the 
ploughshares  shone  more  brilliantly.  At  his 
coming,  the  farm  boys,  stretched  in  the  shade 
eating  their  dinner,  uncovered  their  heads 
respectfully  whilst  biting  into  the  broad 
slices  of  bread  and  cheese  ;  the  oxen  rumi- 
nated in  a  good-humored  way  ;  the  horses 
pranced  under  the  hand  of  the  master  pat- 
ting their  rounded  flanks.  "  Our  country  is 
the  granary  of  France,"  the  goodman  often 
said  ;  then  he  lowered  his  head,  marching, 
looked  at  his  straight-cut  furrows,  and  iost 
himself  in  comtemplation. 

Mistress  Piedeleu,  his  wife,  had  given  him 
nine  children,  of  whom  eight  were  boys, 
and,  if  each  of  the  eight  were  not  six  feet 
high,  he  lacked  but  little  of  it.  It  is  true 
that  such  was  the  size  of  the  goodman,  and 
the  mother  was  five  feet  five  inches  :  she 
was  the  handsomest  woman  thereabouts. 
The  eight  boys,  strong  as  bullocks,  the 
terror  and  admiration  of  the  village,  obeyed 
their  father  as  slaves.  They  were,  so  to 
speak,  the  first  and  most  zealous  of  his 
servants,  doing  in  turn  the  work  of  carters, 
ploughmen,  threshers.  It  was  a  fine  sight 
to  see  those  eight  sturdy  fellows,  either 
when,  with  sleeves  tucked  up,  the  two-pronged 


48  MA  ROOT. 

forks  in  their  hands,  they  would  build  up  a 
haystack,  or,  when  marching  to  mass  on 
Sunday,  arm-in-arm,  the  father  heading  the 
procession  ;  or  finally,  when  at  night-fall, 
the  work  done,  they  sat  around  the  long 
kitchen  table  exchanging  remarks  over  their 
smoking  soup  and  merrily  touching  their 
big  tin  cups. 

In  the  midst  of  that  family  of  giants  had 
come  into  the  world  a  small  creature,  full  of 
health,  but  quite  petite.  It  was  the  ninth 
child  of  Mistress  Piedeleu,  Marguerite, 
whom  they  called  Margot.  Her  head  hardly 
reached  the  elbow  of  any  one  of  her  brothers, 
and  when  her  father  wanted  to  kiss  her  he 
never  failed  to  lift  her  from  the  ground  and 
place  her  on  the  table.  Little  Margot  was 
hardly  sixteen  ;  her  turned-up  nose,  her  well- 
cut  mouth,  neatly  filled  and  always  smiling, 
the  sun-warmed  hue  of  her  complexion,  her 
chubby  arms  and  her  delicately  rounded 
figure,  gave  her  the  look  of  cheerfulness  it- 
self ;  in  truth  she  was  the  joy  of  the  family. 
Seated  among  her  brothers,  she  shone  and 
pleased  the  sight  as  a  blue-bell  in  the  midst 
of  a  bouquet  of  wheat-ears.  "  My  faith," 
the  goodman  would  say,  "  I  don't  know  how 
my  wife  managed  to  get  me  that  child  ;  she 
is  a  real  gift  of  Providence  ;  all  the  same, 


M  ARGOT.  49 

that  little  bit  of  a  girl  will  make  me  laugh  all 
my  life." 

Already  Margot  managed  the  household  ; 
Mother  Piedeleu,  though  still  quite  hale  and 
hearty,  had  confided  those  duties  to  her,  so 
as  to  accustom  her  early  to  order  and 
economy.  Margot  arranged  and  locked  up 
the  linen  and  the  wine,  and  had  the  care  of 
the  pots  and  pans,  which,  however,  she  did 
not  deign  to  wash  ;  but  she  laid  the  covers, 
poured  the  drink,  and  sang  a  song  when 
asked.  The  maid-servants  of  the  house 
never  spoke  of  her  but  as  Mademoiselle 
Marguerite,  for  she  had  her  little  proud  ways. 
Moreover,  as  people  say,  she  was  as  good  as 
a  picture.  I  do  not  mean  that  she  was  not 
coquettish  ;  she  was  young^  pretty,  and  a 
daughter  of  Eve.  But  woe  to  the  boy,  were 
he  one  of  the  village  cocks,  that  would  have 
dared  to  press  her  waist  too  hard  ;  it  would 
have  fared  ill  with  him  :  the  son  of  a  farmer, 
named  Jerry, — a  bad  case  they  called  him, — 
having  kissed  her  one  day  at  the  dance,  had 
been  rewarded  with  a  sounding  slap. 

His  Reverence  the  "Cure  "  showed  Margot 
a  marked  esteem.  When  he  had  an  example 
to  quote,  he  always  chose  her.  He  even  did 
her  the  honor  to  mention  her  name  in  the  ser- 
mon, pointing  her  out  as  a  model  to  his 


5°  MA  R GOT. 

flock.  If  the  so-called  progressive,  enlight- 
ment  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  had  not  sup- 
pressed the  rosieres — that  old  and  honest 
custom  of  our  ancestors, — Margot  would 
have  worn  the  garland  of  white  roses,  and 
that  alone  would  have  been  worth  a  dozen 
sermons  ;  but  our  gentlemen  of  '89  have  sup- 
pressed that  with  the  rest.  Margot  knew 
how  to  sew,  and  even  to  embroider  ;  her 
father  wished  her,  besides,  to  learn  how  to 
read  and  write,  and  she  had  also  been  taught 
spelling,  a  little  grammar,  and  some  geog- 
raphy. A  Carmelite  nun  had  had  charge  of 
her  education.  So  Margot  had  become  the 
oracle  of  the  place  ;  as  soon  as  she  opened 
her  mouth  the  peasants  would  gape.  She 
told  them  that  the  earth  was  round,  and  they 
took  her  word  for  it.  They  gathered  about  her 
on  Sundays,  when  she  danced  on  the  green  ; 
for  she  had  had  a  dancing-master,  and  her 
pas  de  bourrfa  threw  every  one  in  ecstacies. 
In  a  word,  she  managed  to  be  beloved 
and  admired  at  the  same  time, — a  difficult 
feat  indeed. 

The  reader  knows  already  that  Margot  was 
the  god-daughter  of  Madame  Doradour,  and 
that  she  herself  had  written  that  New  Year's 
compliment  on  paper  with  a  fine  engraved 
heading.  The  letter — not  ten  lines  in  all — 


MARCO  T.  5  I 

had  cost  the  little  farmer-girl  many  thoughts 
and  much  trouble,  for  she  was  not  very 
strong  in  literature.  For  all  that,  Madame 
Doradour,  who  always  had  liked  Margot 
very  much,  and  knew  her  for  the  best  girl  in 
the  country,  had  decided  to  ask  her  of  her 
father,  and  to  make  of  her,  if  she  were  al- 
lowed, her  lady  companion. 

The  goodman  was  standing  in  his  yard 
one  evening,  looking  attentively  at  a  new 
wheel  just  attached  to  one  of  his  carts. 
Mother  Piedeleu,  under  the  shed,  was  grave- 
ly holding  the  nostrils  of  a  skittish  bull  by 
means  of  an  enormous  pair  of  pincers,  to 
prevent  his  moving  while  the  veterinary  sur- 
geon inspected  him.  The  farm-boys  were 
grooming  the  horses,  just  back  from  the 
watering  trough.  The  cattle  slowly  entered 
the  yard,  a  majestic  procession  of  cows  filing 
towards  the  stable  under  the  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  and  Margot,  seated  on  a  heap  of 
clover,  was  reading  an  old  copy  of  the 
"  Journal  de  1'Empire  "  that  His  Reverence 
had  lent  her.  His  Reverence  himself  ap- 
peared at  that  moment,  and  coming  to  the 
good  man,  placed  in  his  hands  a  letter  from 
Madame  Doradour.  The  farmer  opened  the 
letter  with  all  due  respect,  but  hardly  had  he 
read  the  first  lines  when  he  was  obliged  to 


52  MA  ROOT. 

sit  down  on  a  bench,  so  moved  and  surprised 
was  he.  "  She  asks  for  my  daughter  !  " 
cried  he,  "  my  only  daughter,  my  poor 
Margot." 

At  these  words  Mistress  Piedeleu,  fright- 
ened nearly  to  death,  ran  to  him  ;  the  sons, 
just  back  from  the  fields,  grouped  themselves 
around  their  father  ;  Margot  alone  remained 
aside,  afraid  to  move  or  breathe.  After  the 
first  exclamations,  the  whole  family  fell  into 
a  dead  silence.  His  Reverence  then  began 
to  speak  and  to  count  up  all  the  advant- 
ages of  the  proposal  of  Margot's  godmother. 
Madame  Doradour  had  been  of  real  service 
to  the  Piedeleus.  She  was  their  benefac- 
tress ;  now  she  needed  some  one  to  make, 
her  life  pleasant,  to  take  care  of  her  and 
her  household  ;  s-he  applied  to  her  farmer 
with  confidence  ;  she  certainly  would  not 
fail  to  treat  her  god-daughter  well,  and  to  se- 
cure her  future.  The  goodman  listened  to 
the  "  Cure  "  without  uttering  a  word,  then  he 
asked  for  a  few  days'  reflection  before  decid- 
ing the  matter. 

It  was  only  at  the  end  of  a  week,  after 
many  hesitations  and  many  tears,  that  it  was 
settled  that  Margot  should  visit  Paris.  Her 
mother  refused  to  be  consoled  :  she  said  it 
was  a  shame  to  allow  her  daughter  to  enter 


M ARGOT.  53 

service  when  she  had  only  to  choose  among 
the  handsomest  boys  in  the  country  to  be- 
come a  rich  farmer's  wife.  The  Piedeleu 
boys,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  could 
not  agree  ;  they  would  quarrel  all  daylong, — 
some  consenting,  others  refusing  ;  in  a  word, 
there  was  unheard-of  disorder  and  incredible 
grief  in  that  house.  But  the  goodman  re- 
membered that  in  an  unlucky  year,  Madame 
Doradour,  instead  of  asking  for  her  quarter's 
rent,  had  sent  him  a  bag  of  money  ;  so  he 
ordered  silence  all  around,  and  decided  that 
his  daughter  should  go. 

The  day  of  departure  arrived,  and  a  horse 
was  hitched  to  the  wagon  to  carry  Margot  to 
Chartres.  Nobody  went  to  the  fields  that 
day  ;  nearly  the  whole  village  was  collected 
in  the  farmyard.  They  had  made  a  complete 
outfit  for  Margot  ;  the  inside,  and  the  out- 
side, and  the  top  of  the  wagon  were  covered 
with  trunks  and  boxes  ;  the  Piedeleus  were 
determined  that  their  girl  should  not  cut  a 
bad  figure  in  Paris.  Margot  had  said  good- 
bye to  everybody,  and  was  about  kissing  her 
father,  when  His  Reverence  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  addressed  to  her  a  fatherly  speech 
about  her  voyage,  the  life  she  was  about  to 
enter,  and  the  dangers  that  might  assail  her. 
"  Preserve  your  modesty,  maiden,"  finished 


54  M  ARGOT. 

the  worthy  man,  "  it  is  the  most  precious  of 
treasures  ;  watch  over  it  ;  God  will  do  the 
rest." 

Goodman  Piedeleu  was  moved  to  tears, 
although  he  had  not  very  clearly  understood 
the  whole  of  His  Reverence's  speech.  He 
pressed  his  daughter  to  his  heart,  kissed  her, 
and  let  her  go  ;  then  came  back  to  her,  and 
kissed  her  again  ;  he  tried  to  speak,  but  his 
grief  prevented  him.  "  Remember  His  Rev- 
erence's advice,"  said  he  at  last,  in  an  altered 
voice.  "  Remember  it  well,  my  poor  child." 
Then  he  added  suddenly,  "  A  thousand 
devils'  pipes  !  don't  you  forget  it,  and  don't 
fail  to — " 

His  Reverence,  who  was  stretching  his 
hands  to  give  Margot  his  benediction, 
stopped  short  at  this  rough  speech.  But 
the  goodman  had  spoken  so  strongly  only  to 
hide  his  emotion  ;  so  he  turned  his  back  to 
His  Reverence,  and  went  into  the  house 
without  a  word.  Margot  climbed  into  the 
wagon,  and  the  horse  was  about  starting, 
when  they  heard  such  a  big  sob  that  every- 
body turned  around.  They  saw  then  a  little 
boy  of  fourteen  years  or  thereabouts,  whom 
nobody  had  noticed  before. 

His  name  was  Pierrot,  and  his  profession 
was  not  exactly  noble,  for  he  was  a  turkey- 


M ARGOT.  55 

keeper  ;  but  he  was  passionately  devoted  to 
Margot,  not  from  love,  but  from  friendship. 
Margot  always  liked  the  poor  little  chap  ; 
she  often  had  given  him  a  handful  of  cherries 
or  a  bunch  of  grapes  with  which  to  season 
his  dry  bread.  As  he  was  not  wanting  in  in- 
telligence, she  had  enjoyed  hearing  him  talk, 
had  taught  him  the  little  she  knew,  and,  as 
they  were  both  nearly  of  the  same  age,  it  had 
often  happened  when  the  lesson  was  finished, 
that  teacher  and  pupil  had  played  hide-and-go- 
seek  together.  At  this  very  moment  Pierrot 
wore  a  pair  of  wooden  shoes  Margot  had 
given  him  in  pity,  seeing  him  barefooted. 
Standing  alone  in  the  corner  of  the  yard, 
surrounded  by  his  humble  flock,  Pierrot 
looked  at  his  wooden  shoes,  and  cried  with 
all  his  heart. 

Margot  beckoned  him  to  approach,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  ;  he  took  it  and 
brought  it  to  his  face,  as  if  he  wished  to  kiss 
it,  but  it  only  touched  his  eyes  ;  when  Mar- 
got  withdrew  it  it  was  all  wet  with  tears. 
She  sai-3  a  last  good-bye  to  her  mother,  and 
the  wasron  started. 


56  MA  ROOT. 

III. 

When  Margot  climbed  into  the  stage-coach 
at  Chartres,  the  idea  of  travelling  twenty 
leagues,  and  of  seeing  Paris,  had  already  up- 
set her  to  such  an  extent  that  she  had  lost  all 
desire  for  food  or  drink.  Much  saddened  as 
she  was  at  leaving  her  native  village,  she 
could  not  help  but  feel  some  curiosity,  as 
she  had  so  often  heard  Paris  spoken  of  as  the 
marvel  of  marvels  ;  hardly  could  she  imagine 
that  she  was  going  to  see  such  a  beautiful 
city  with  her  own  eyes.  Among  her  stage 
companions  was  a  travelling  clerk,  who,  faith- 
ful to  the  habits  of  his  profession,  ceased  not 
to  prattle  all  the  time.  Margot  listened  to 
his  "fairy  tales"  with  a  religious  attention. 
A  few  of  her  timid  questions  soon  showed 
him  how  much  of  a  novice  she  was,  and,  pil- 
ing up  his  exaggerations,  he  drew  such  an 
extravagant  and  pompous  picture  of  the 
capital  that,  listening  to  him,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  find  out  whether  he  was 
speaking  of  Paris  or  Pekin.  Of  course  Mar 
got  had  no  idea  of  doubting  him,  and  he  was 
not  the  man  to  stop  at  the  thought  that  her 
first  step  in  the  great  city  would  show  her 
how  much  he  had  lied.  This  is  indeed  the 
supreme  attraction  of  boasting.  I  remember 


M ARGOT.  57 

that  once,  while  going  to  Italy,  I  was  treated 
just  as  Margot  was  :  one  of  my  travelling 
companions  gave  me  a  description  of  Genoa, 
the  very  place  I  was  about  to  visit ;  he  was 
lying  on  the  steamer  that  brought  us  there  ; 
he  was  lying  in  sight  of  the  city  ;  in  the  har- 
bor he  was  lying  still. 

The  stages  coming  from  Chartres  enter 
Paris  through  the  Champs  Elysees.  I  leave 
you  to  imagine  what  must  have  been  the  feel- 
ings of  admiration  of  a  peasant  girl  from 
Beauce  whilst  descending  that  magnificent 
avenue,  without  its  peer  in  the  world  and 
which  seems  built  to  welcome  a  triumphant 
hero,  master  of  the  rest  of  the  universe.  After 
such  splendor  the  quiet  and  narrow  streets  of 
the  Marais  seemed  very  dreary  to  Margot. 
Nevertheless,  when  the  coach  stopped  before 
the  gate  of  Madame  Doradour,  the  fine  ap- 
pearance of  the  house  charmed  her.  She 
raised  the  knocker  with  a  trembling  hand, 
and  let  it  fall  with  mingled  fear  and  pleas- 
ure. Madame  Doradour  expected  her  god- 
daughter, received  her  with  outstretched 
arms,  and  giving  her  a  thousand  caresses, 
called  her  "  her  own  little  girl,"  ensconced 
her  on  a  low  sofa,  and  had  some  supper 
brought  to  her. 

All   dizzy  from   the   noise  of  the  streets, 


5  8  MA  ROOT. 

Margot  looked  at  the  tapestries,  at  the  painted 
panels,  at  the  gilded  furniture,  but  above  all 
she  looked  into  the  beautiful  mirrors  decorat- 
ing the  drawing-room.  She  had  never  done 
her  hair  up  before  anything  larger  than  her 
father's  shaving-glass ;  judge  how  charming 
and  how  astonishing  it  must  have  been  to  see 
her  image  reflected  around  her  in  so  many 
different  manners.  The  delicate  and  polished 
tones  of  her  godmother,  her  noble  and  re- 
served way  of  speaking,  also  impressed  her 
deeply.  Even  the  dress  of  the  good  lady,  her 
ample  robe  of  heavy  flowered  silk,  her  large 
cap  and  powdered  hair,  were  matter  of  reflec- 
tion for  Margot,  and  revealed  to  her  at  once 
that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  a  superior 
being.  As  she  had  a  quick  and  facile  mind, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  that  instinct  of  imita- 
tion so  natural  to  children,  she  had  chattered 
hardly  an  hour  with  Madame  Doradour  before 
she  was  trying  to  imitate  her  ways.  She  sat 
up,  straightened  her  cap,  and  called  to  her 
help  all  the  grammar  she  knew.  Unfor- 
tunately, a  glass  of  very  good  wine,  offered 
by  her  godmother  to  help  her  recuperate, 
had  strangely  confused  her  ideas.  Her  eye- 
lids fell ;  so  Madame  Doradour  took  her  by 
the  hand,  led  her  into  a  beautiful  cham- 
ber, where,  after  having  kissed  her  anew, 


M  ARGOT.  59 

she  wished  her  a  very  good  night  and  re- 
tired. 

A  minute  later  some  one  knocked  at  the 
door ;  a  lady's  maid  entered,  took  off  Mar- 
got's  shawl  and  cap,  and  leaned  down  to  untie 
her  shoes.  Margot,  already  asleep,  though 
standing,  let  her  do  as  she  pleased.  It  was 
only  when  her  last  garment  came  off  that  she 
noticed  that  she  was  being  undressed  ;  but, 
without  realizing  her  singular  attire,  she 
made  a  deep  bow  to  the  femme  de  chambre, 
said  her  prayers  in  quite  a  hurry,  and  slid 
quickly  into  bed.  By  the  flickering  light  of 
her  night-lamp  she  half  noticed  that  her 
chamber  also  had  some  gilt  furniture,  and 
that  it  was  adorned  with  one  of  those  mag- 
nificent mirrors  she  loved  so  well.  Above  the 
fine  pane  of  glass  a  sculptured  panel,  all 
wreathed  and  surrounded  with  little  cupids, 
seemed  to  call  her  to  see  the  reflection  of  her 
image.  She  promised  herself  to  answer  the 
appeal,  and  rocked,  as  it  were,  by  the  pleas- 
antest  dreams,  she  fell  asleep  in  a  delightful 
mood. 

People  get  up  early  in  the  country.  Our 
little  village  maiden  woke  up  the  next  morn- 
ing with  the  birds.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  and 
perceiving  in  her  beloved  mirror  a  bright 
face,  nonored  it  with  her  most  winning  smile. 


60  M 'ARGOT. 

Soon  the  femme  de  chambre  appeared,  asking 
respectfully  if  mademoiselle  wished  to  take  a 
bath.  At  the  same  time  she  placed  upon  her 
shoulders  a  robe  of  scarlet  flannel  that  seemed 
to  Margot  nothing  less  than  kingly  purple. 

The  bath-room  of  Madame  Doradour  was 
a  more  worldly  retreat  than  seemed  proper 
for  such  a  devout  person.  It  had  been  built 
under  King  Louis  XV.  The  bath-tub,  ap- 
proached by  three  steps,  was  placed  in  a  stuc- 
coed recess,  framed  in  with  gilt  roses,  with 
the  unavoidable  cupids  pursuing  their  flight 
all  over  the  ceiling.  On  a  panel  opposite 
was  painted  a  copy  of  "  The  Bathers "  by 
Boucher — a  copy  due  perhaps  to  Boucher 
himself.  A  garland  of  flowers  ran  along  the 
wood-work  ;  a  thick  carpet  covered  the  floor 
and  a  silken  curtain,  gracefully  looped, 
allowed  a  mysterious  chiar'  oscuro  to  pene- 
trate through  the  lattice.  Time,  of  course, 
had  dimmed  all  this  magnificence,  and  the 
gildings  showed  traces  of  age.  But  that  very 
softening  made  one  feel  more  at  ease,  as  if 
inhaling  a  perfumed  whiff  from  the  sixty 
years  of  folly, — the  reign  of  the  beloved  king. 

Margot,  alone  in  this  room,  approached 
the  steps  timidly.  First  she  examined  the 
gilt  griffins  encased  on  each  side  of  the  bath. 
She  hardly  dared  to  enter  the  water,  which 


MARGOJ\  6 1 

seemed  to  be  at  least  attar  of  roses.  She 
cautiously  dipped  one  limb  into  the  water, 
then  the  other,  then  remained  standing  in 
contemplation  before  the  panel.  She  did  not 
know  much  about  paintings,  so  that  she  doubt- 
less saw  goddesses  in  the  nymphs  of  Bou- 
cher. Never  could  she  imagine  that  such 
women  existed  on  earth,  that  such  white 
hands  could  help  one  to  eat,  that  such  small 
feet  could  walk  and  run.  What  would  she 
not  have  given  to  be  as  lovely  as  they  !  She 
never  guessed  that,  with  her  sun-browned 
hands,  she  was  worth  a  hundred  such  dolls. 
A  slight  movement  of  the  curtain  drew  her 
suddenly  from  her  abstraction  ;  she  shud- 
dered at  the  idea  of  being  caught  thus,  and 
sank  into  the  water  up  to  her  neck. 

A  feeling  of  ease  and  languor  soon  per- 
vaded her  entire  being  ;  she  began,  as  all 
children  do,  by  playing  in  the  water  with  the 
corner  of  her  wrapper.  Then  she  amused 
herself  counting  the  flowers  and  the  sculp- 
tures of  the  room  ;  she  also  examined  the 
small  cupids,  but  their  rotundity  displeased 
her.  She  leaned  her  head  on  the  rim  of  the 
bath-tub,  and  looked  out  through  the  slightly 
opened  window. 

The  bathing-room  was  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  the  window  looked  into  the  garden.  It 


62  M ARGOT. 

was  not,  as  one  may  think,  an  English  garden, 
but  an  old-fashioned  garden  in  the  French 
style, — a  very  lovely  style  to  my  mind  :  fine 
gravelled  walks,  with  borders  of  boxwood, 
large  flower-beds,  brilliant  with  well-combined 
colors  ;  here  and  there  pretty  statuary,  and, 
far  off,  a  labyrinth  of  shrubs.  Margot  looked 
at  the  labyrinth,  the  dark  entrance  of  which 
put  her  in  a  dreamy  mood  ;  the  hide-and-go- 
seek  games  came  back  to  her,  and  she  thought 
that,  amongst  the  meanders  of  the  shrub- 
bery, there  must  be  plenty  of  good  hiding- 
places. 

At  that  very  moment  a  handsome  young 
man,  in  the  uniform  of  a  huzzar,  came  out  or 
the  labyrinth,  walking  toward  the  house. 
Having  passed  near  the  flower-bed  he  ap- 
proached so  close  to  the  window  of  the  bath- 
ing-room that  his  elbow  actually  touched  the 
latticework.  Margot  could  not  repress  a 
slight  exclamation  called  forth  by  her  fright ; 
the  young  man  stopped,  lifted  the  lattice- 
work, and  put  in  his  head  ;  he  saw  Margot 
in  her  bath,  and,  although  a  huzzar,  he 
blushed.  Margot  blushed  also,  and  the 
young  man  walked  away. 


M ARGOT.  63 

IV. 

The  most  unfortunate  thing  under  the  sun 
?OF  everybody,  especially  for  young  girls,  is 
that  to  be  good  is  a  hard  task,  and  that  to  be 
simply  reasonable  we  have  to  take  a  world  of 
trouble  ;  while  to  be  naughty  there  is  nothing 
to  do  but  to  let  go.  Homer  tells  us  that 
Sisyphus  was  the  wisest  of  mortals  ;  never- 
theless the  poets  unanimously  condemn  him 
to  roll  an  enormous  stone  up  the  slope  of  a 
hill,  whence  it  falls  back  at  once  on  the  poor 
man,  who  recommences  rolling  it  up  again. 
Commentators  have  wearied  themselves 
searching  for  the  reason  of  that  torture  :  as 
for  me,  I  have  never  doubted  that,  by  means 
of  this  beautiful  allegory,  the  ancients  wished 
to  represent  the  pursuit  of  goodness.  Is  not 
goodness,  in  fact,  that  enormous  rock,  which 
we  roll  up  without  ceasing,  and  which  falls 
back  just  as  often  on  our  heads  ?  The  joke 
is  that,  the  day  the  stone  escapes  our  hands, 
our  having  rolled  it  up  for  so  many  years 
avails  us  nothing  ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  if 
a  fool  happens  by  chance  to  perform  a  single 
reasonable  act,  no  praise  is  too  extravagant 
for  him.  Folly  is  very  far  from  being  a 
stone  ;  it  is  a  soap-bubble  which  goes  danc- 
ing before  us,  reflecting,  like  the  rainbow,  all 


64  M ARGOT. 

the  colors  of  creation.  It  is  true  that  the 
bubble  bursts,  and  scatters  a  few  drops  of 
water  in  our  eyes,  but  a  new  bubble  at  once 
comes  to  life,  and  to  keep  it  up  in  the  air  all 
we  need  do  is  to  breathe. 

By  these  philosophical  reflections  1  desire 
to  show  that  it  is  not  surprising  that  Margot 
should  be  just  a  little  in  love  with  the  gentle- 
man who  had  glanced  at  her  in  her  bath,  and 
I  also  wish  to  say  that  on  this  account  the 
reader  must  not  form  a  bad  opinion  of  her. 
When  Love  gets  mixed  up  in  our  affairs  he 
needs  no  help  from  any  one,  and  it  is  we'll 
known  that  to  close  the  door  in  his  face  is 
not  the  means  to  prevent  his  entering  ;  but 
this  time  he  entered  through  the  window, 
and  here  comes  the  whole  story. 

The  young  fellow  in  the  huzzar  uniform 
was  none  other  than  Gaston,  the  son  of 
Madame  Doradour,  who  had  torn  himself 
away  from  his  garrison  flirtations,  and  had 
just  reached  his  mother's  house.  Heaven 
willed  that  the  room  awarded  to  Margot 
should  be  the  one  at  the  corner  of  the  house, 
and  that  the  room  of  the  young  man  should 
be  in  that  neighborhood  ;  that  is,  their  two 
windows  were  nearly  opposite,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  quite  near  each  other.  Margot 
used  to  dine  with  Madame  Doradour,  and  to 


M ARGOT.  65 

pass  the  afternoon  with  her  until  supper- 
time  ;  but  from  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
until  noon  she  remained  in  her  room.  At 
that  time  Gaston  was  in  his  room,  also,  so 
that  Margot  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  sew 
near  the  window  and  look  across  towards 
her  neighbor. 

Neighborhood  has,  in  all  times,  been  the 
cause  of  the  greatest  misadventures  ;  there 
is  nothing  so  dangerous  as  a  pretty  neigh- 
bor ;  were  she  plain,  even,  I  should  hardly 
feel  secure,  for,  by  dint  of  seeing  her  all  the 
time,  I  should  be  bound,  sooner  or  later,  to 
think  her  pretty.  Gaston  had  a  little  round 
mirror  hanging  at  the  window,  as  is  the  cus- 
tom of  bachelors.  Before  that  mirror  he 
would  shave  himself,  comb  his  hair,  and  tie 
his  cravat.  Margot  noticed  that  he  had  fine 
blond  hair,  which  curled  naturally.  That 
induced  her  to  buy  at  once  a  bottle  of  violet- 
scented  hair-oil,  which  helped  her  to  keep 
the  two  little  waves  emerging  from  under 
her  cap  always  smooth  and  brilliant.  She 
noticed,  also,  that  Gaston  brought  out  a 
number  of  pretty  cravats  ;  so  she  bought  a 
dozen  silk  kerchiefs,  the  prettiest  that  were 
to  be  had  in  the  whole  Marais.  Besides, 
Gaston  indulged  in  that  habit  which  made 
the  great  Geneva  philosopher  so  indignant, 


66  MA  ROOT. 

and  which  caused  his  estrangement  from  his 
friend  Grimm  :  he  pared  his  nails,  as  Rous- 
seau says,  "  with  an  instrument  made  on  pur- 
pose." Margot  was  not  so  great  a  philoso- 
pher as  Rousseau  ;  instead  of  getting  indig- 
nant, she  bought  a  nail-brush,  and  to  hide 
her  hand — which  was  a  trifle  red,  as  I  said 
before — she  put  on  black  mitts,  showing  but 
the  tips  of  her  fingers.  Gaston  had  many 
other  fine  things  which.  Margot  could  not 
imitate ;  for  example,  red  trousers,  and  a 
sky-blue  spencer  all  braided  with  black. 
Margot.  owned,  it  is  true,  a  wrapper  of  scar- 
let flannel,  but  what  could  offset  the  blue 
spencer  ?  She  pretended  to  have  the  ear- 
ache, and  made  herself,  for  morning  wear,  a 
small  toque  of  blue  velvet.  Having  noticed 
at  the  head  of  Gaston's  bed  a  portrait  of  Na- 
poleon, she  wanted  to  have  that  of  Josephine. 
Finally,  Gaston  having  said  one  day,  at 
breakfast,  that  he  rather  liked  a  good  omelet, 
Margot  surmounted  her  timidity,  and  per- 
formed an  act  of  great  courage :  she 
declared  that  no  one  knew  how  to  make 
omelets  so  well  as  she  ;  that  at  home  she 
always  prepared  them  herself,  and  that  her 
godmother  ought  kindly  to  taste  one  from 
her  hand. 

Thus  did  the  poor  child  endeavor  to  show 


M ARGOT.  67 

her  virginal  love,  but  Gaston  did  not  pay  the 
slightest  attention  to  it.  How  could  a  bold 
and  proud  young  man,  accustomed  to  the 
noisy  pleasures  of  garrison  life,  have  noticed 
all  this  childish  intriguing  ?  The  grisettes  of 
Strasbourg  manage  it  differently,  when  a 
caprice  enters  their  heads.  Gaston  usually 
dined  with  his  mother,  then  went  out  for  the 
whole  evening  ;  and,  as  Margot  could  not 
sleep  until  he  was  back,  she  awaited  him  be- 
hind her  curtain.  It  sometimes  happened 
that  the  young  man,  seeing  a  light  in  her 
room,  would  say,  as  he  crossed  the  yard, 
"  Why  has  not  that  little  girl  gone  to  bed  ? " 
It  also  happened  that,  whilst  finishing  his 
toilet,  he  would  give  Margot  an  absent- 
minded  look  which  went  to  her  soul  ;  but 
she  turned  her  head  the  other  way  at  once, 
for  she  would  rather  have  died  than  to  re- 
turn such  a  look.  It  is  true  that,  in  the 
drawing-room,  she  did  not  show  herself  the 
same.  Sitting  by  her  godmother,  she  en- 
deavored to  appear  grave  and  reserved,  and 
to  listen  demurely  to  the  prattle  of  Madame 
Doradour.  When  Gaston  spoke  to  her,  she 
would  answer  as  best  she  could,  and  strange 
to  say,  she  would  feel  no  emotion  whatever. 
Explain  who  can  what  passed  through  that 
fifteen-year-old  brain  ;  the  love  of  Margot 


68  M ARGOT. 

was,  so  to  speak,  locked  up  in  her  room ;  she 
found  it  there.  Hfhen  she  entered,  and  left  it 
as  she  came  out  ;  but  she  took  the  key  with 
her,  so  that  no  one  could,  in  her  absence,  pro- 
fane her  little  sanctuary. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that  the  presence 
of  Madame  Doradour  caused  her  to  be  cir- 
cumspect, and  led  to  many  a  reflection. 
Did  not  that  presence  constantly  remind  her 
of  the  distance  between  her  and  Gaston  ? 
Another  girl  would  probably  have  felt  des- 
perate or  resolved  to  get  cured  at  any  cost, 
feeling  the  danger  of  such  a  passion.  But 
Margot  had  never  asked  herself,  even  in  her 
inmost  heart,  what  would  be  the  outcome  of 
such  love  ;  and,  in  truth,  is  there  a  more 
empty  question  than  that  continually  ad- 
dressed to  lovers,  "  Where  will  that  lead 
you  ?  "  Ay,  my  good  people,  that  will  lead 
me  to  love  ! 

As  soon  as  Margot  would  wake  up,  she 
jumped  from  her  bed  and  ran  barefoot,  in 
her  neat  little  night-cap,  to  lift  a  tiny  corner 
of  the  curtain  and  to  see  if  Gaston  had 
opened  his  shutters.  If  these  were  closed, 
she  would  return  quickly  to  bed,  watching 
the  moment  when  she  could  hear  the  noise 
of  the  window-knob,  so  familiar  to  her.  That 
moment  come,  she  put  on  her  slippers  and 


MA  ROOT.  69 

her  dressing-gown,  opened  her  window  as  he 
had  opened  his,  and  leaned  over,  nodding 
her  head  with  a  sleepy  air  as  if  to  ascertain 
what  kind  of  weather  there  was  ;  then  she 
pushed  open  one  of  the  sashes  of  the  window, 
so  as  to  be  seen  by  Gaston  only  ;  then  she 
placed  her  looking-glass  on  a  small  table,  and 
began  to  comb  her  beautiful  hair.  She  did 
not  know  that  a  true  coquette  shows  herself 
when  adorned,  not  whilst  adorning  her  per- 
son :  as  Gaston  arranged  his  hair  before  her 
she  arranged  hers  before  him.  Half-hidden 
by  the  mirror,  she  risked  some  timid  glances, 
quick  to  lower  her  eyes  if  Gaston  happened 
to  look  at  her.  When  her  hair  was  nicely 
combed  and  puffed  up,  she  placed  on  top  the 
little  cap  of  embroidered  mull  a  la  paysanne , 
she  had  steadily  refused  to  give  up  ;  that  little 
cap  was  always  pure  white,  as  was  also  the 
broad  turned-down  collar  encasing  her  shoul- 
ders and  making  her  look  like  a  little  nun. 
She  remained  thus  with  bare  arms  and  a 
short  petticoat,  waiting  for  her  coffee.  Soon 
Mademoiselle  Pelagic,  her  femme  de  chambre, 
appeared,  bearing  a  tray,  and  escorted  by  the 
house  cat, — an  indispensable  piece  of  furni- 
ture at  the  Marais — which  never  failed  every 
morning  to  pay  his  respects  to  Margot.  He 
enjoyed  the  privilege  of  occupying  a  low  sofa 


7°  MA  ROOT. 

just  in  front  of  her,  and  of  having  his  share 
of  the  breakfast.  Of  course  the  whole  thing 
was  to  the  young  girl  but  a  pretext  for  re- 
newed coquetry.  The  cat,  old  and  spoiled, 
rolled  in  a  ball  in  an  arm-chair,  gravely  re- 
ceived kisses  which  were  not  meant  for  him. 
Margot  would  tease  him,  take  him  in  her 
arms,  throw  him  upon  the  bed,  now  caress- 
ing, now  vexing  him.  For  the  ten  years  he 
had  lived  in  the  house,  he  had  never  been 
made  so  much  of,  and  if  he  did  not  exactly 
enjoy  it,  he  took  it  all  the  same  in  good  part, 
being  at  bottom  a  good-natured  cat,  with 
quite  a  liking  for  Margot.  The  coffee  drunk, 
she  would  again  approach  the  window,  pre- 
tending to  look  after  the  weather,  then  push- 
ing the  sash  open,  she  admitted  more  light 
into  the  room.  Now,  a  man  with  a  hunter's 
instinct  would  have  found  it  the  proper  time 
for  lying  in  wait.  Margot  was  just  finishing 
her  toilet.  Shall  I  say  that  she  showed  her- 
self ?  Oh,  no  !  she  nearly  died  with  fear  of 
being  seen  and  with  desire  to  be  seen.  But 
was  not  Margot  a  good  girl  ?  Certainly  she 
was  ;  a  good,  honest  and  innocent  child. 
Then  what  did  she  do  ?  O,  she  simply  tied 
her  shoes,  put  on  her  skirt  and  dress,  and 
from  time  to  time,  through  the  half-open  win- 
dow, one  might  have  seen  her  stretching  her 


M ARGOT.  71 

arm  to  take  a  pin  from  the  table.  But  what 
would  she  have  done  had  she  been  watched  ? 
Undoubtedly  she  would  have  closed  the  win- 
dow. Then  why  did  she  leave  it  open  ?  O, 
you  just  ask  her  ;  I  do  not  know. 

Matters  had  reached  that  point,  when  one 
day  Madame  Doradour  and  her  son  began  to 
hold  long  tete-a-tetes.  There  reigned  about 
them  an  atmosphere  of  mystery,  and  they 
often  spoke  in  covert  terms.  A  short  time 
afterwards  Madame  Doradour  said  to  Mar- 
got,  "  My  dear  child,  you  will  soon  see  your 
mother  again  ;  we  shall  pass  the  autumn  at 
la  Honvilie." 

V. 

The  Honvilie  habitation  was  situated  about 
a  league  from  Chartres  ;  half  that  distance 
from  the  farm  where  Margot's  parents  lived. 
It  could  hardly  be  called  a  "  castle,"  but  it 
was  certainly  a  beautiful  house  with  a  large 
park  attached.  Madame  Doradour  seldom 
visited  her  estate,  and  its  only  inhabitant  for 
many  years  had  been  her  head-overseer.  All 
the  more  surprised  and  disturbed  was  Margot 
at  this  sudden  excursion  and  at  the  mysteri- 
ous interviews  between  the  old  lady  and  her 
son. 

Madame   Doradour  had   arrived   but    two 


72  M  ARGOT. 

days  before,  and  all  the  luggage  had  not  been 
unpacked  even,  when  there  appeared  on  the 
plain  ten  giants  marching  in  battle  array.  It 
was  the  Piedeleu  family  coming  to  pay  their 
regards.  The  mother  carried  a  basket  of 
fruit,  the  sons  presented  each  a  pot  of  gilli- 
flowers,  and  the  goodman  ambled  along  with 
an  enormous  melon  under  each  arm  ;  he  had 
chosen  them  himself  as  the  best  of  his  crop. 
Madame  Doradour  received  these  presents 
with  her  usual  kindness,  and — as  she  had  an- 
ticipated her  farmer's  visit — she  extracted 
from  her  press  eight  waistcoats  of  flowered 
silk  for  the  boys,  a  piece  of  lace  for  Mother 
Piedeleu,  and  for  the  goodman  a  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hat  with  a  gold  buckle.  The 
compliments  having  thus  been  offered  and 
returned,  Margot,  radiant  with  joy  and  health, 
appeared  before  her  people.  After  she  had 
been  kissed  all  around,  her  godmother  began 
to  praise  her  aloud,  speaking  highly  of  hei 
mildness,  her  modesty,  her  brightness  ;  and 
the  cheeks  of  the  young  girl,  warmly  colored 
from  the  kisses  received,  blushed  a  vivid  red. 
Mother  Piedeleu,  judging  from  the  fine 
clothes  of  Margot  that  she  must  be  happy, 
could  not  help,  good  mother  as  she  was,  say, 
ing  that  she  had  never  been  prettier.  "  My 
faith,  that's  true,"  said  the  goodman.  "  True 


M ARGOT.  73 

indeed,"  repeated  a  voice  that  made  Margot's 
heart  jump.  The  speaker  was  Gaston,  who 
had  just  entered. 

At  that  moment,  the  door  being  left  open, 
they  noticed,  in  the  antechamber,  little 
Pierrot,  the  turkey-keeper,  who  had  cried  so 
hard  on  Margot's  departure.  He  had  fol- 
lowed his  masters  some  distance  away,  and 
not  daring  to  enter  the  room,  he  attempted, 
from  afar,  an  awkward  bow.  "  Who  is  this 
little  fellow  ? "  asked  Madame  Doradour. 
"  Come  nearer,  my  boy  ;  come  and  say  good- 
morning."  Pierrot  bowed  again,  but  nothing 
could  induce  him  to  come  in  ;  he  colored  as 
red  as  fire  and  took  to  his  heels  in  fear  and 
trembling. 

"  Is  it  really  true  that  you  find  me  pretty  ?  " 
repeated  Margot  to  herself,  as  she  walked  all 
alone  in  the  park,  after  her  family  had  gone. 
"  How  bold  men  are,  to  say  such  things 
before  so  many  people.  I  dare  not  even 
look  in  his  face  ;  how  can  he  speak  aloud 
words  that  make  me  blush  so  deeply  ?  He 
must  be  very  much  accustomed  to  it  indeed, 
or  look  upon  the  thing  as  very  insignificant. 
All  the  same,  to  say  to  a  woman  that  you  find 
her  pretty,  is  a  great  deal ;  almost  a  declar- 
ation of  love." 


74  M ARGOT. 

At  such  a  thought  Margot  stopped  and 
began  asking  herself  whether  she  knew  any- 
thing about  declarations  of  love.  She  had 
heard  a  good  deal  on  the  subject,  but  still 
she  did  not  understand  the  matter  very 
clearly.  "  How  do  people  say  that  they 
love  ? "  she  asked  herself,  and  she  could 
hardly  believe  that  the  words  "  I  love  you  " 
could  be  all  sufficient.  It  seemed  that  there 
should  be  something  else,  something  more,  a 
secret,— a  special  language,  as  it  were, — a 
mystery  full  of  danger  and  delight.  She  had 
read  but  one  novel,  the  title  of  which  I  do 
not  remember.  It  was  an  odd  volume  found 
by  chance  in  her  father's  store-room.  It 
told  of  a  Sicilian  brigand  running  away  with 
a  nun,  and  it  contained  some  unintelligible 
sentences  that  she  judged  to  be  love  phrases  ; 
but  she  had  heard  His  Reverence  say  that 
novels  were  all  silly  stuff,  and  to-day  she 
craved  for  truth,  not  nonsense.  From 
whom  would  she  dare  ask  it  ? 

Gaston's  room,  at  La  Honville,  was  not  as 
near  Margot's  as  it  was  in  Paris.  No  more 
furtive  glances,  no  more  windows  opening 
with  a  clang.  Every  morning,  at  five  o'clock, 
a  bell  sounded  discreetly.  It  was  the  game- 
keeper awakening  Gaston,  the  bell  hanging 
outside  quite  close  to  his  quarters.  Then 


M ARGOT.  75 

the  young  man  got  up,  and  went  out  shoot- 
ing. Behind  her  latticed  shutters,  Margo.t 
could  see  him,  gun  in  hand,  surrounded  by 
his  pointers,  when  he  started  on  horseback, 
through  the  mist  which  still  veiled  the  fields. 
Her  eyes  followed  him  with  the  same  emo- 
tion she  would  have  felt  had  she  been  a 
tower-bound,  mediaeval  lady  whose  lover  had 
started  for  Palestine.  It  often  happened 
that  Gaston,  instead  of  ordering  the  inner 
gate  to  be  opened,  would  make  his  horse 
jump  that  slight  obstacle.  .Then  how  Mar- 
got  did  utter  a  frightened  sigh,  half  sweet, 
half  sad  !  And  when  Gaston  returned  at 
night,  all  dust  covered,  how  she  looked  at 
him  from  head  to  foot,  to  assure  herself  that 
he  had  come  back  safe  and  sound,  as  from  a 
bloody  strife  !  When  he  drew  from  his  game- 
bag  a  hare  or  a  brace  of  partridges  and 
placed  them  on  the  table,  she  thought  she 
saw  a  victorious  warrior  bringing  home  his 
enemy's  spoils. 

What  she  so  much  dreaded  happened  one 
day.  Gaston,  clearing  a  hedge,  fell  from  his 
horse  into  some  bramble-bushes,  and  was 
slightly  scratched.  How  upset  she  was  by 
such  a  trivial  accident !  Her  prudence 
deserted  her  ;  she  came  near  fainting  away. 
Her  hands  crossed  themselves  nervously  and 


7  6  M ARGOT. 

she  could  have  been  heard  muttering  a  'ow 
prayer.  How  delighted  she  would  have 
been,  had  she  herself  been  allowed  to  stop 
the  few  drops  of  blood  flowing  from  the 
young  man's  wounded  hand  !  She  placed  in 
her  pocket  her  finest  handkerchief — her  only 
embroidered  one — ardently  hoping  for  an 
occasion  to  present  it  to  Gaston  to  wrap  in  it 
his  scratched  palm.  But  even  that  consola- 
tion was  denied  her.  At  supper,  that  even- 
ing, the  cruel  boy  refused  Margot's  offer  to 
wipe  off  the  few  drops  of  blood  escaping 
from  the  ill-arranged  bandage,  and  he  negli- 
gently rolled  a  napkin  around  his  wrist.  So 
cruelly  disappointed  was  poor  Margot,  that 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Of  course  she  never  dreamed  that  Gaston 
despised  her  love.  .He  ignored  it,  that  was 
all;  and  what  could  be  done  for  that? 
Sometimes  Margot  would  feel  resigned  ;  the 
next  moment  impatient  and  fretful.  The 
most  indifferent  events  became  to  her  sub- 
jects for  joy  or  grief.  A  kind  word,  a  mere 
look  from  Gaston,  would  make  her  happy 
a  whole  day  ;  then  should  he  cross  the  draw- 
ing-room without  noticing  her,  should  he 
retire  in  the  evening  without  his  usual  nod, 
she  would  spend  the  night  trying  to  find  out 
how  she  could  have  displeased  him.  Should 


M ARGOT.  77 

he,  perchance,  sit  near  her  a  few  minutes  and 
praise  her  handiwork,  she  beamed  with  joy 
and  gratitude  :  but  if,  at  dinner  time,  he  de- 
clined some  dish  offered  by  her,  she  thought 
at  once  that  he  had  ceased  loving  her. 

On  certain  days  she  actually  felt  pity  for 
herself.  For  whole  afternoons  she  would 
doubt  her  beauty,  and  think  herself  positively 
ugly ;  then,  again,  she  would  revolt,  and 
before  her  looking-glass  shrug  her  shoulders 
in  utter  vexation,  thinking  of  Gaston's  indif- 
ference. An  angry  or  disappointed  impulse 
would  cause  her  now  to  rumple  her  broad, 
low  collar,  now  to  bring  down  her  cap  over 
her  eyes  ;  the  next  moment  her  pride  called 
her  coquettish  instincts  to  the  rescue,  and 
she  would  appear  in  the  middle  of  the  day, 
dressed  in  all  her  finery  and  in  her  Sunday 
gown,  protesting,  as  it  were,  with  all  her 
might,  against  the  injustice  of  fate. 

Margot  in  her  new  condition  had  preserved 
the  tastes  of  her  earlier  estate.  Whilst 
Gaston  went  out  hunting,  she  often  spent 
the  forenoon  in  the  vegetable  garden. 
She  knew  well  how  to  use  the  pruning- 
knife,  the  rake  and  the  watering-pot,  and 
more  than  once  did  she  help  the  gardener 
with  some  useful  advice.  This  kitchen- 
garden  stretched  behind  the  house  and  served 


7  8  M ARGOT. 

also  as  a  flower-garden,  where  flowers,  fruits 
and  vegetables  grew  in  touching  accord. 
Margot  had  a  special  love  for  a  high  fruit- 
wall  covered  with  beautiful  peaches.  She 
cared  for  it  tenderly,  and  every  day  picked, 
with  a  sparing  hand,  a  few  fruits  for  the 
evening  dessert.  Upon  that  lattice-wall  grew 
a  peach  much  larger  than  all  the  others,  that 
Margot  never  had  found  the  heart  to  pluck. 
It  looked  so  velvety  with  its  deep  purple 
color,  that  she  dared  not  detach  it  from  the 
tree,  as  if  it  had  been  a  real  crime  to  destroy 
such  a  masterpiece  of  nature.  She  had 
never  passed  by  without  glancing  at  it  ad- 
miringly, and  she  had  warned  the  gardener 
never  to  touch  it  as  he  heeded  her  anger 
and  her  godmother's  reproaches.  One  day, 
at  sunset,  Gaston  was  returning  from  the 
hunt  ;  he  crossed  the  back  garden,  hurried 
and  thirsty.  Stretching  his  hand  toward  the 
fruit-wall  as  he  passed  by,  he  plucked,  by 
mere  chance,  Margot's  favorite  peach,  biting 
at  it  at  once  with  no  show  of  respect.  The 
girl  was  standing  at  a  little  distance,  water- 
ing a  vegetable-bed.  She  ran  toward  him  in 
haste  ;  but  the  young  man,  not  seeing  her, 
continued  on  his  way.  A  few  bites  more, 
and  he  threw  the  fruit  behind  him.  One 
look  showed  Margot  that  the  beloved  peach 


MA  ROOT.  79 

was  gone.  The  sudden  movement  of  Gas- 
ton,  the  thoughtless  manner  in  which  he  had 
thrown  the  peach  away,  had  produced  on  the 
child  a  peculiar  and  unexpected  effect.  She 
was  grieved,  and  at  the  same  time  delighted, 
since  she  thought  that,  the  burning  sun  hav- 
ing rendered  Gaston  very  thirsty,  her  peach 
must  have  caused  him  real  pleasure.  She 
picked  it  up,  blew  away  the  dust  that  soiled 
it,  and,  seeing  no  observing  eye,  gave  it  a 
timid  kiss  ;  at  the  same  time  biting  it  slight- 
ly— just  for  a  taste.  I  do  not  know  what 
queer  idea  crossed  her  mind,  but  thinking 
perhaps  of  the  fruit,  perhaps  of  herself,  she 
murmured,  "  O,  you  bad  boy,  how  much  you 
throw  away  in  your  ignorance." 

I  hope  the  reader  will  excuse  this  narra- 
tive of  childish  events  ;  but  what  else  have  I 
to  tell,  my  heroine  being  a  child  ?  Madame 
Doradour  had  been  invited  to  dinner  in  a 
neighboring  castle,  one  day,  and  took  Gas- 
ton  and  Margot  with  her.  It  was  quite  late 
when  the  party  broke  up,  and  night  had 
already  closed  in  when  our  friends  drove 
homeward.  Margot  and  her  godmother 
filled  the  back  seat  of  the  carriage  ;  Gaston, 
occupying  the  front  seat  alone,  had  stretched 
himself,  nearly  his  whole  length,  upon  the 
cushions.  It  was  abeautiful  moonlight  night, 


8o  MA  ROOT. 

but  the  inside  of  the  carriage  was  dark  ; 
scarcely  a  ray  of  light  penetrated  it ;  the  con- 
versation was  flagging  ;  a  good  dinner,  some 
slight  fatigue,  the  darkness,  the  cradle-like 
rocking  of  the  carriage,  everything  tempted 
the  travellers  to  sleep.  Madame  Doradour 
soon  fell  into  a  doze,  and  as  she  went  to  sleep, 
placed  her  foot  on  the  seat  opposite,  not 
afraid  of  disturbing  Gaston.  The  outside 
air  being  cool,  the  same  thick  cloak  covered 
both  god-mother  and  god  daughter.  Margot, 
sunk  into  her  corner,  did  not  move  although 
wide  awake.  She  was  quite  anxious  to  know 
if  Gaston  also  was  napping.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  since  her  eyes  were  opened,  his  were 
bound  to  be  so  too,  and  she  looked  toward 
him  without  seeing  him,  and  wondered 
whether  he  likewise  glanced  toward  her.  At 
times,  when  a  little  light  strayed  into  the  car- 
riage, she  coughed  noiselessly.  The  young 
man  was  motionless,  and  the  young  girl  dared 
not  to  speak  for  fear  of  disturbing  her  god- 
mother's sleep.  She  stretched  her  head  and 
looked  outside  ;  the  idea  of  a  long  voyage  so 
much  resembles  that  of  a  long  love,  that  in 
surveying  the  moonlight  and  the  fields,  Mar- 
got  forgot  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  la 
Honville.  She  half  closed  her  eyelids,  and 
whi'st  glancing  at  the  passing  trees,  imag- 


M ARGOT.  8 1 

ined  she  was  starting  for  Switzerland  or  Italy 
with  Madame  Doradour  and  her  son.  That 
dream,  as  you  may  fancy,  led  her  to  many 
others,  and  to  such  sweet  ones  that  she  gave 
herself  up  to  them  without  reserve.  She  saw 
herself,  not  yet  the  wife  of  Gaston,  but  his 
affianced  bride,  going  over  the  world,  be- 
loved by  him,  having  the  right  to  love  him, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  journey,  there  was 
"  Happiness," — a  charming  word,  constantly 
repeated,  but  of  which,  luckily  for  her,  she 
but  faintly  knew  the  real  meaning.  To 
dream  better,  she  closed  her  eyes  completely. 
She  soon  went  into  a  doze,  and  as  Madame 
Doradour  had  done  before,  placed  her  foot 
on  the  seat  opposite.  Chance  would  have 
it  that  this  foot, — daintily  clad  for  that  mat- 
ter, and  very  small, — landed  exactly  upon 
Gaston's  hand  ;  Gaston  did  not  seem  to 
notice  its  approach,  but  Margot  wakened 
with  a  start.  She  did  not  draw  back  the 
foot  at  once,  however,  but  let  it  softly  slide 
to  one  side.  So  well  had  she  been  wrapped 
in  her  dreams,  that  her  awakening  hardly 
took  her  away  from  them.  In  going  to  Switz- 
erland with  a  beloved  one  is  it  a  crime  to 
place  your  foot  upon  the  seat  where  he  lies 
asleep  ?  Little  by  little,  however,  the  illu- 
sion faded  away,  and  Margot  began  to  real- 


82  M ARGOT. 

ize  the  wild  thing  she.  had  done.  "  Did  he 
notice  it?"  she  asked  herself;  "is  he  still 
asleep,  or  does  he  pretend  to  be  ?  And  if  he 
slept,  how  did  it  not  awaken  him  ?  Perhaps 
he  feels  too  great  a  disdain  for  me  even  to 
show  that  he  felt  my  foot  ;  perhaps,  also,  he 
rather  likes  it,  and  is  only  waiting  for  me  to 
do  it  again  ;  perhaps  he  thinks  that  I  too  am 
asleep.  Still  it  is  hardly  pleasant  to  have 
some  other  person's  foot  on  your  hand — 
if  you  do  not  love  her.  My  shoe  must  have 
soiled  his  glove,  for  we  walked  quite  a  good 
deal  to-day  ;  perhaps  he  wants  to  show  me 
that  he  does  not  mind  such  a  trifle.  What 
would  he  say  if  I  did  it  again  ?  Well,  he 
knows  that  I  would  never  dare  do  such  a 
thing  ;  perhaps  he  guessed  my  trouble,  and 
is  silently  amused."  While  cogitating,  Mar- 
got  withdrew  her  foot  slowly,  and  with  all 
possible  caution  ;  but  why  did  that  little  foot 
shake  like  an  aspen-leaf  ?  While  feeling  its 
way  in  the  dark,  it  just  touched  again  the 
tips  of  Gaston's  fingers.  It  was  so  slight  and 
so  quick  a  touch  that  Margot  hardly  felt  it 
herself.  Never  did  her  heart  beat  so  fast  ; 
she  trembled  as  if  she  were  lost,  having  com- 
mitted such  irreparable  imprudence.  "  What 
will  he  now  think  ? "  she  said  to  herself. 
"  What  opinion  will  he  have  of  me  ?  In  what 


M ARGOT.   .  83 

awful  trouble  shall  I  find  myself  ?  Never 
shall  I  dare  to  face  his  look  again.  It  was 
wrong  enough,  my  having  touched  him  the 
first  time  ;  but  now  it  is  ten  times  worse. 
How  can  I  prove  that  I  did  not  do  it  on  pur- 
pose ?  Boys  are  such  unbelievers.  He  will 
make  fun  of  me,  and  speak  of  it  to  every- 
body, to  my  godmother  first  of  all,  and  she 
will  tell  it  to  my  father  !  and  oh,  I  shall 
never,  dare  show  myself  in  the  village  ! 
Where  shall  I  go  ?  What  will  become  of 
me  ?  How  can  I  defend  myself  ?  when  I 
certainly  did  touch  him  twice,  and  no  woman 
ever  did  such  a  thing  ?  After  all  this,  the 
least  that  can  happen  to  me  is  to  be  ignomin- 
iously  sent  away."  At  such  a  thought  Mar- 
got  shuddered.  She  racked  her  brains  to 
find  some  means  of  explanation.  She  pro- 
jected writing  a  long  letter  to  Gaston  the 
next  morning  to  be  handed  to  him  secretly, 
telling  him  that  she  had  placed  her  foot  upon 
his  hand,,  by  mistake,  and  begging  him  to 
forgive  and  forget  it.  "  But,  if  he  does  not 
sleep  ?  "  she  thought  again.  "  If  he  suspects 
how  much  I  love  him  ?  If  he  has  found  me 
out  ?  If  he  should  come  to  me  to-morrow  and 
first  speak  of  our  adventure  ?  If  he  should 
say  that  he  loves  me  ?  If  he  should  make  me 
a  declaration  !  "  —  Suddenly  the  carriage 


84  M ARGOT. 

stopped.  Gaston,  until  then  fast  asleep, 
awoke,  stretching  his  arms  rather  uncere- 
moniously. He  had  some  trouble  to  remem- 
ber where  he  was.  In  the  presence  of  this 
discovery,  away  flew  Margot's  dreams  ;  and 
when  the  young  man  assisted  her  from  the 
coach,  with  that  very  hand  that  her  foot  had 
touched,  she  realized  but  too  clearly  that  she 
had  been  travelling  alone. 


VI. 

Soon  afterwards,  two  unforeseen  events,  the 
first  one  somewhat  laughable,  the  second  quite 
serious,  took  place  nearly  at  the  same  time. 
One  morning  Gaston  was  riding  down  the 
avenue  leading  to  the  house,  trying  a  horse  he 
had  just  bought,  when  a  young  boy,  insuf- 
ficiently clad  in  very  ragged  garments,  ap- 
proached him  with  a  resolute  air  and  stopped 
in  front  of  his  horse.  It  was  Pierrot,  the 
turkey-herder.  Gaston,  of  course,  did  not 
recognize  him,  and,  thinking  him  a  beggar, 
threw  some  change  in  the  cap  the  boy  held  in 
his  hand.  Pierrot  pocketed  the  sous,  but  in- 
stead of  going  away  ran  after  the  rider,  and 
again  took  his  place  in  front  of  the  steed. 
Vainly  did  Gaston  order  him  off  two  or  three 
times ;  Pierrot  followed  and  stopped  him 


MAKGOT.  85 

again.  Finally  the  young  officer  cried  furi- 
ously :  "  What  do  you  want  of  me,  little 
wretch  ?  Have  you  made  a  bet  that  I  would 
run  over  you  ? " 

'•'  Sir,"  said  Pierrot,  without  budging  an 
inch,  "  I  would  like  to  be  the  servant  of 
your  Honor." 

"  Of  whom  ?  " 

"  Of  your  Honor,  sir." 

"  My  servant  ?  and  why  ?  I  should  like  to 
know." 

"  Just  to  be  your  Honor's  servant." 

"  But  I  do  not  want  any  new  servant.  Who 
told  you  I  was  looking  for  one  ?  " 

"  Nobody  did,  sir." 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me,  then  ?  " 

"  Simply  because  I  wish  to  become  your 
Honor's  servant." 

"  Are  you  crazy  ?  Or  do  you  dare  to  be 
impertinent  ?" 

"  No  indeed,  sir." 

"  Then  take  this  and  begone  !  "  and 
Gaston,  throwing  him  some  more  change, 
turned  his  horse  aside  and  continued  his 
ride. 

Pierrot  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  road, 
and  when  Margot  happened  to  pass  that  way, 
an  hour  or  so  later,  she  found  him  shedding 
hot  tears.  She  ran  to  him  at  once. 


86  M ARGOT. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  poor  Pierrot  ? "  she 
asked.  "  What  has  happened  to  you  ?  " 

At  first  Pierrot  refused  to  answer,  but 
finally  he  said,  sobbing  : 

"  I  want  to  become  his  Honor's  servant, 
and  he  won't  let  me." 

It  caused  Margot  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to 
make  him  explain  the  matter.  At  last  she 
understood  what  he  meant.  Since  she  had 
left  the  farm,  Pierrot  felt  sorely  grieved  not 
to  see  her  any  more.  Half  in  shame,  and 
half  in  tears,  he  told  her  of  his  miseries,  and 
although  laughing,  she  could  hardly  help 
pitying  him.  The  poor  boy  expatiating  on 
his  regrets  spoke  all  in  one  burst,  of  his  friend- 
ship for  Margot,  of  his  worn-out  wooden 
shoes,  of  his  sad  solitude  in  the  fields,  of  his 
favorite  turkey  which  had  just  died  ;  all  of 
which  got  somewhat  mixed  in  his  head.  At 
last,  unable  to  bear  his  desolation  any  longer, 
he  had  decided  to  come  to  la  Honville  and  to 
ask  Gaston  to  accept  him  as  a  servant.  It 
had  taken  him  a  week  to  form  that  big  resolu- 
tion, and  a  few  minutes  to  have  his  request 
denied.  In  his  misery,  he  even  spoke  of  dying, 
rather  than  to  return  to  the  farm-house. 

"  Since  his  Honor  won't  have  me,"  he  said, 
finishing  his  tale,  "  and  since  I  cannot  be 
with  him  as  you  are  with  Madane  Doradour, 


MA  ROOT.  87 

I  will  let  myself  starve  ;  I  will."  Useless  to 
add  that  these  last  words  were  drowned  in  a 
second  deluge  of  tears. 

Margot  consoled  him  as  best  she  could  ; 
then,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  she  brought 
him  to  the  house.  She  led  him  to  the  pantry, 
and  to  ward  off  the  starvation  vow  gave  him 
a  big  slice  of  bread,  with  plenty  of  ham  and 
fruit.  Pierrot,  the  tears  still  trickling  down 
his  cheeks,  ate  with  a  strong  appetite,  mean- 
while looking  at  Margot  with  his  large,  loving 
eyes.  She  made  him  easily  understand  that, 
to  enter  any  one's  service  he  must  wait  for  a 
vacant  situation,  and  she  promised,  at  the 
proper  time,  to  make  a  formal  request  in  his 
behalf.  She  thanked  him  also  for  his  friend- 
ship, assured  him  that  she  liked  him  just  as 
much  as  he  did  her,  wiped  off  his  tears,  and, 
kissing  him  on  the  brow,  with  a  little  maternal 
affection,  induced  him  finally  to  take  his  depar- 
ture. Pierrot,  fully  convinced,  stuffed  his 
pockets  with  what  remained  of  his  luncheon. 
To  close  the  bargain,  Margot  gave  him  a  big 
silver  piece,  with  which  to  buy  a  fine  waist- 
coat and  a  new  pair  of  wooden  shoes.  Quite 
consoled,  Pierrot  took  the  young  girl's  hand, 
and  brought  it  to  his  lips,  saying  in  a  trem- 
bling voice  :  "  Au  revoir,  Mademoiselle  Mar- 
guerite." As  he  walked  away,  Margot  noticed 


88  M ARGOT. 

that  the  little  boy  of  yore  had  grown  to  be 
quite  a  big  fellow.  That  reminded  her 
that  she  was  but  one  year  his  senior,  and 
so  she  decided,  ///  petto,  that  on  the  ciext 
occasion  she  would  not  kiss  him  quite  so 
freely. 

The  next  day,  she  noticed  that  Ga»ton, 
contrary  to  his  habit,  had  not  gone  out  hunt- 
ing, and  had  dressed  himself  even  more  care- 
fully than  usual.  After  dinner, — about  four 
o'clock, — the  young  man  gave  his  mother  his 
arm,  and  both  walked  down  the  avenue. 
They  were  talking  in  a  low  voice,  and  seemed 
preoccupied.  Margot,  alone  in  the  dining- 
room,  was  looking  somewhat  anxiously  out  of 
the  window,  when  a  post-chaise  drove  into  the 
court-yard.  Gaston  ran  at  once  to  the  car- 
riage door,  and,  when'  he  openbd  it,  there 
alighted  first  an  old  lady,  then  a.  foung  lady, 
about  nineteen  years  old,  tastefully  dressed 
and  beautiful  as  daylight.  The  welcome  they 
received  showed  to  Margot  that  they  were  not 
only  persons  of  high  standing,  but  probably 
near  relations  of  her  godmother.  The  two 
best  spare-rooms  of  the  house  had  been  made 
ready  for  them.  When,  later,  the  new-comers 
entered  the  drawing-room,  Madame  Dora- 
dour  silently  notified  Margot  to  leave  the 
room.  She  did  so  with  a  heavy  heart,  augur- 


M ARGOT.  89 

ing  nothing  pleasant  for  her  from  the  stay  of 
these  two  ladies. 

She  was  wondering,  the  next  day,  whether 
or  not  she  should  descend  for  breakfast,  when 
her  godmother  came  herself  to  bring  her 
down  and  to  introduce  her  to  Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles  ;  for  such  was  the 
name  of  the  strangers.  Entering  the  dining- 
room,  Margot  noticed  at  once  that  a  white 
napkin  had  been  placed  before  her  usual  seat, 
beside  Gaston.  She  took  silently,  but  some- 
what sadly,  another  seat.  Her  place  was  oc- 
cupied by  Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles,  and  it 
was  soon  easy  to  see  how  often  Gaston  looked 
at  his  new  neighbor.  Margot  remained  dumb 
all  through  the  meal,  and  when  she  served 
the  dish  placed  before  her,  Gaston  did  not 
even  hear  her  offer  it.  After  breakfast,  they 
all  went  into  the  park,  and  after  a  few  turns 
upon  the  gravelled  walks,  Madame  Doradour 
leaned  on  the  arm  of  her  old  friend  ;  Gaston 
offered  his  arm  to  the  beautiful  young  lady, 
and  Margot,  left  alone,  followed  slowly  be- 
hind. No  one  thought  of  the  poor  child 
or  spoke  to  her,  so  she  soon  turned  back 
and  went  into  the  house.  At  dinner-time, 
Madame  Doradour  called  for  a  bottle  of 
sweet  Frontignan  wine,  and  as  she  had  pre- 
served the  good  old  customs,  she  stretched 


9°  MA  ROOT. 

her  hand,  before  drinking,  and  invited  her 
guests  to  touch  glasses.  Every  one  obeyed 
the  call,  except  poor  Margot,  who  hardly 
knew  what  to  do.  However,  she  raised  her 
glass  hoping  for  encouragement,  but  no  one 
answered  her  timid  gesture,  and  she  set  down 
her  glass  without  having  touched  its  contents. 
"  It  is  a  pity  that  we  are  not  five  instead 
of  four,"  said  Madame  de  Vercelles,  after 
dinner,  "  for  we  might  have  played  bou- 
illotte." 

It  took  five  people  to  play  bouillotte  in 
those  days.  Margot,  from  her  corner,  did 
not  dare  to  say  that  she  knew  the  game,  and  so 
her  godmother  proposed  whist,  instead.  Sup- 
per having  been  brought  in,  they  asked  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Vercelles  to  sing  during  des- 
sert. She  allowed  herself  to  be  begged  very 
long  and  very  hard,  and  finally  she  warbled, 
in  a  light  and  graceful  voice,  a  merry  little 
song.  As  she  sung  it  Margot  could  not  help 
thinking  of  her  father's  house  where  she  was 
the  one  asked  to  sing  at  dessert.  When  they 
all  retired  she  found,  on  entering  her  room, 
that  two  of  her  favorite  pieces  of  furniture 
had  been  carried  off  :  a  large  sofa,  and  a 
small  inlaid  table  upon  which  she  placed  her 
mirror  when  combing  her  hair.  Having 
opened  the  window,  all  in  a  tremble,  to  con- 


M ARGOT.  91 

template,  for  an  instant,  the  light  behind 
Gaston's  drawn  curtains — it  was  her  every 
evening  good-bye — she  found  no  light,  and 
all  the  shutters  closed.  She  went  to  bed 
heart-broken  and  passed  a  sleepless  night. 

What  motives  brought  the  two  strangers 
here  and  how  long  would  they  stay  ?  These 
were  two  questions  to  which  Margot  found 
no  answer.  It  was  only  too  certain  that  it 
had  something  to  do  with  the  whispered  con- 
versation between  mother  and  son.  There 
was  an  unfathomable  mystery,  but  that 
mystery,  Margot  felt,  was  about  to  annihilate 
her  bliss.  At  first,  she  thought  the  ladies 
were  relatives  ;  but  too  much  was  made  of 
them  to  admit  of  such  a  simple  explanation. 
While  walking,  Madame  Doradour  never 
failed  to  point  out  to  the  mother  how  far  the 
park  extended  and  whispered  a  number  of 
details  about  the  products  and  the  value 
of  the  estate.  She  meant,  perhaps,  to  sell 
la  Honville  ;  then  what  would  become  of 
Margot's  people  ?  Would  the  new-comer  be 
willing  to  keep  the  old  farmers  ?  And  then, 
on  the  other  side,  why  should  Madame  Dora- 
dour  sell  the  place  ?  She,  so  wealthy,  to 
think  of  selling  the  place  she  was  born  upon 
and  on  which  her  son's  fancy  was  so  com- 
pletely centred  ?  The  strange  ladies  came 


92  M  ARGOT. 

from  Paris  ;  they  spoke  of  it  constantly  and 
seemed  indifferent  to  country  life.  Madame 
de  Vercelles  mentioned,  at  supper-time,  that 
she  often  approached  the  Empress,  and  had 
even  accompanied  her  to  Malmaison  and 
enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  her  sovereign. 
Then,  perhaps,  it  was  only  a  question  of  pro- 
motion for  Gaston,  and  all  these  flatteries 
went  to  the  lady  in  high  standing  at  court. 
Such  were  Margot's  conjectures  ;  but  what- 
ever effort  she  made,  her  mind  felt  dissatified, 
and  her  heart  obstinately  refused  to  admit 
the  only  probable  supposition, — after  all  the 
only  true  one. 

Two  servants  had,  with  difficulty,  brought 
a  large  wooden  box  into  Mademoiselle  de 
Vercelles'  apartment.  Once,  as  Margot  was 
leaving  her  room,  she  heard  the  sound  of  a 
piano.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that 
her  ears  had  been  struck  with  such  exquisite 
chords.  All  the  instrumental  music  she  knew 
of  was  the  country  dances  of  her  village. 
She  stopped,  all  in  a  flutter  of  admiration. 
First,  Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles  played  a 
waltz  ;  then  changing  the  tune,  she  began  to 
sing  to  her  own  accompaniment.  Margot 
approached  the  door  on  tiptoes  and  listened. 
The  words  were  Italian.  The  softness  of 
that  unknown  tongue  seemed  to  Margot  still 


M ARGOT.  93 

more  extraordinary  than  the  harmonies  of 
the  instrument.  What  mysterious  words 
could  that  beautiful  maiden  be  speaking  in 
the  midst  of  so  strange  a  melody?  Margot, 
overcome  by  curiosity,  wiped  her  eyes,  half 
filled  with  tears,  and  stooping,  looked  through 
the  key-hole.  She  saw  Madamoiselle  de  Ver- 
celles  in  her  dtskabille  :  bare  arms,  floating 
hair,  open  lips,  and  uplifted  eyes.  She 
seemed  to  her  like  an  angel ;  for  never 
before  had  she  seen  anything  so  charming. 
She  walked  away  slowly,  dazzled  and  at  the 
same  time  despairing,  unable  to  understand 
lier  own  emotions.  But,  while  descending 
the  stairs,  she  repeated  over  and  over 
again,  with  a  tremble  in  her  voice,  "  Oh  ! 
Sacred  Virgin !  the  lovely  beauty,  the  lovely 
beauty !  " 

VII. 

Is  it  not  singular  that  in  this  world  the 
parties  most  directly  interested  in  daily 
events  are  always  the  most  easily  self-de- 
luded ?  Indeed,  in  this  case,  even  an  indif- 
ferent witness  of  Gaston's'  attitude  towards 
Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles,  would  have  found 
at  once  how  deeply  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her.  But  M  argot  saw  nothing,  perhaps  be- 


94  M ARGOT. 

cause  she  refused  to  see  anything.  In  spite 
of  her  unconscious  grief,  an  unexplainable 
feeling,  that  the  reader  may  judge  improba- 
ble, hindered  her,  for  a  long  time,  from  dis- 
covering the  truth  :  this  feeling  was  no  other 
than  her  great  admiration  for  Mademoiselle 
de  Vercelles. 

Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles  was  tall,  blonde, 
graceful.  She  did  more  than  please  ;  she 
had,  if  I  may  say  so,  a  kind  of  consoling 
beauty.  Her  look,  her  speech  had  such  pecu- 
liar, such  soft  calmness,  that  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  resist  the  charm  she  spread  around 
her.  After  a  few  days,  she  began  to  show 
quite  a  liking  for  Margot  ;  she  even  went 
some  length  to  conquer  the  young  girl. 
She  taught  her  mysterious  embroidery 
stitches  ;  she  took  her  arm  as  they  walked 
through  the  park,  and  induced  her  soon  to 
sing  a  few  of  her  simple  village  melodies,  ac- 
companying her  on  the  piano.  Margot,  al- 
though nearly  heartbroken,  received  with 
great  gratitude  these  tokens  of  good-will. 
Three  days  had  elapsed, — three  days  of  utter 
solitude  for  Margot, — before  the  young  Pari- 
sian beauty  spoke  to  her  for  the  first  time. 
Had  not  Margot  good  cause  to  give  a  little 
start,  a  mixture  of  pleasure,  fear  and  surprise  ? 
She  had  suffered  so  deeply  to  find  herself 


MA  ROOT,  95 

utterly  neglected  by  Gaston,  that  a  suspicion 
of  the  real  state  of  things  had  dawned  even 
in  her  mind.  Thus  did  she  find,  in  that  action 
of  her  rival,  a  kind  of  bitter  delight.  First 
of  all  she  felt  an  intense  relief  at  being  at  last 
taken  out  of  her  sudden  isolation  ;  and  the 
regard  of  such  a  lovely  creature  flattered  her 
not  a  little.  Such  beauty,  that  ought  to  have 
inspired  her  with  jealousy,  enchanted  her, 
from  the  first  words  uttered.  Becoming 
quickly  more  familiar,  she  conceived  a  deep 
passion  for  Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles.  Hav- 
ing admired  her  face,  she  enjoyed  and  praised 
her  deportment,  her  exquisite  simplicity,  the 
graceful  undulation  of  her  stately  head,  even 
her  least  piece  of  finery.  Her  eyes  constantly 
followed  the  lovely  stranger,  and  she  listened 
with  deep  attention  to  every  word  she  spoke. 
Did  Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles  sit  before  the 
piano  the  eyes  of  Margot  seemed  to  say  ex- 
ultingly,  "  My  darling  friend  is  going  to 
play."  For  she  called  her  such  pet  names, 
not  without  a  childish  feeling  of  satisfied 
vanity.  Did  they  walk  out  towards  the 
village,  the  peasants  would  turn  around  and 
look  at  the  fair  stranger,  to  the  total  indiffer- 
e.nce  of  Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles,  but  to  the 
blushing  joy  of  Margot.  Every  morning, 
just  before  breakfast,  she  would  call  upon 


9<5  M 'ARGOT, 

her  kind  friend  ;  she  helped  her  to  finish 
her  toilet,  looked  at  her  lovely  white  hands 
and  listened  to  her  as  she  sang  those  beauti- 
ful Italian  songs.  Then  she  went  down  to 
the  drawing-room  with  her,  proud  if  she  could 
catch  some  arietta  and  hum  it  timidly  on 
the  staircase.  And  with  all  that,  she  was 
devoured  by  grief,  and  when  alone  would  cry 
until  her  heart  nearly  broke. 

Madame  Doradour  was  too  light-minded 
to  notice  any  change  in  her  god-daughter. 
Sometimes,  however,  she  would  say,  "  You 
are  pale,  dearie,  this  morning  ;  did  you  not 
sleep  well  ? "  Then  without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  she  would  busy  herself  elsewhere. 
Gaston  was  more  clear-sighted,  and  if  he 
gave  a  thought  to  the  matter,  he  probably 
guessed  the  cause  of  Margot's  melancholy  ; 
but  he  judged  that  it  was  nothing  more  than 
a  child's  fancy,  or  a  little  feminine  jealousy 
that  time  would  surely  heal.  Meantime, 
Margot  constantly  avoided  being  alone  with 
him.  The  thought  of  a  tete-a-tete  was 
enough  to  put  her  in  a  tremble,  and,  when 
walking  alone,  she  would  turn  away  if  she 
espied  him,  even  in  the  distance. 

The  young  man  thought  these  precautions 
the  marks  of  an  ultra-timid  disposition. 
"  Funny  little  girl,"  would  he  say  often,  as 


M ARGOT.  97 

he  saw  her  turn  away  precipitately  on  his 
coming  near.  To  tease  her  in  her  trouble, 
he  had  approached  sometimes  in  spite  of  her. 
Then  would  Margot  lower  her  head,  answer 
nothing  but  monosyllables,  and  sink  in  her- 
self, as  it  were,  like  those  flowers  they  call 
"  sensitive  plants." 

So  went  the  days,  in  extreme  monotony. 
Gaston  neglected  the  hunt  ;  they  played  cards 
but  seldom  ;  nor  did  they  walk  much.  It 
was  talk,  talk  all  the  while  ;  and  two  or  three 
times  a  day,  Madame  Doradour  would  wink 
Margot  away  to  leave  the  others  more  at 
liberty.  The  poor  girl  was  constantly  going 
and  coming  from  her  chamber.  Did  she 
come  into  the  drawing-room  without  being 
sent  for,  she  would  see  the  two  mothers  nod 
to  each  other,  and  the  whole  party  relapsing 
into  a  dead  silence  ;  when  called  back  at  the 
close  of  some  long  secret  conversation,  she 
sat  down  without  lifting  her  eyes,  and  her 
anxiety  was  much  like  what  one  feels,  when, 
at  sea,  the  sky  being  still  pure  and  bright, 
a  storm  begins  to  brew  slowly  in  the  far-away 
horizon. 

One  morning,  as  she  was  passing  the 
door  of  Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles,  that 
young  lady  called  her  in.  After  a  few 
commonplace  remarks,  Margot  noticed  a 


98  M ARGOT. 

pretty    ring    on    one    of    her    dear    friend's 
fingers.  , 

"  Try  it  on,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
celles  ;  "  let  us  see  how  it  fits  you." 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle,  my  hand  is  not  hand- 
some enough  for  such  jewels." 

"  Well,  well,  never  mind  ;  that  ring  suits 
you  to  a  nicety,  I  will  make  you  a  present  of 
it  on  my  bridal  day." 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  ? "  queried  Mar- 
got,  all  excitement. 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  answered  Mademoiselle 
de  Vercelles,  laughing,  "  such  accidents  hap- 
pen to  us  girls." 

You  may  guess  in  what  anxiety  these  few 
words  threw  poor  Margot ;  she  repeated  them 
to  herself,  over  and  over  again,  day  and 
night,  almost  mechanically,  and  without  dar- 
ing to  sift  their  meaning.  Shortly  afterward, 
as  the  coffee  was  brought  in,  at  supper  time, 
Gaston  handed  her  a  cup  which  she  refused 
softly,  saying  :  "  Wrait,  and  give  it  to  me  on 
your  marriage  day."  The  young  man  smiled, 
somewhat  surprised,  but  answered  nothing. 
Madam  Doradour  frowned,  however,  and  .re- 
quested Margot,  rather  tartly,  to  mind  her 
own  business. 

Margot  did  so.  She  felt  that  what  she 
wanted  and  so  much  dreaded  to  know  was 


M 'ARGOT.  99 

now  proved  by  that  very  circumstance.  She 
ran  to  her  room,  locked  herself  in  and,  bury- 
ing her  head  in  her  hands,  began  to  cry  bit- 
terly. As  soon  as  she  had  recovered  a  little, 
she  made  sure  that  the  bolts  were  drawn,  so 
that  no  one  could  witness  her  grief.  Then, 
away  from  all,  she  felt  herself  free  to  read  in 
her  soul  the  story  of  her  trouble. 

In  spite  of  her  extreme  youth  and  of  her 
mad  love,  Margot  was  possessed  of  much 
common  sense.  So  the  first  thing  she  real- 
ized  was  her  utter  powerlessness  2o  fight 
against  settled  events.  She  understood  at 
last  that  Gaston  loved  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
celles,  that  the  two  families  had  agreed  on 
that  weighty  point,  and  that  the  marriage 
was  decided  upon.  Perhaps  even  the  day 
had  been  appointed.  And  now  she  remem- 
bered having  noticed,  in  the  library,  a  man, 
all  dressed  in  black,  and  writing  upon  offi- 
cially stamped  paper  :  a  notary,  no  doubt, 
preparing  the  settlement-deeds.  Mademoi- 
selle de  Vercelles  was  rich  ;  so  would  Gaston 
be  after  his  mother's  demise  ;  what  could 
Margot  do  against  so  natural  and  so  equitable 
an  arrangement  ?  She  thought  the  matter 
over  carefully,  and  the  more  she  thought,  the 
more  unconquerable  she  found  the  obstacles. 
Unable  to  stop  the  marriage,  she  decided  that 


loo  M ARGOT. 

all  she  could  do  would  be  to  be  absent  her- 
self at  its  celebration.  She  pulled  at  once 
her  little  trunk  from  under  her  bed,  and 
placed  it  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  so  as  to 
pack  up  her  things  and  return  to  her  parents  ; 
then  her  courage  suddenly  failed  her,  and  in- 
stead of  opening  the  box,  she  sat  upon  it  and 
began  to  cry  anew.  So  she  remained  for  an 
hour,  in  a  really  pitiful  state.  The  motives 
which  had  struck  her  mind  so  forcibly  began 
to  get  rather  mixed,  her  tears  made  her  al- 
most dizzy  ;  she  vainly  shook  her  head  so  as 
to  be  freed  from  them.  While  she  was  wor- 
rying and  trying  to  come  to  some  final  decis- 
ion, she  had  not  noticed  her  candle  burning 
out.  Suddenly  she  found  herself  in  the  dark  ; 
she  got  up,  opened  the  door  and  went  out  for 
a  light.  It  was  deep  night  already,  and 
everybody  in  bed.  She  walked  on,  however, 
feeling  her  way,  never  believing  that  the  hour 
was  so  late. 

When  she  found  herself,  as  she  reached  the 
stairs,  all  in  the  dark  and  alone  in  the  house, 
as  it  were,  fright — a  very  natural  feeling  for 
one  so  young — seized  her  violently.  She  had 
gone  over  a  long  passage  leading  from  her 
room  ;  there  she  stopped,  hardly  daring  to 
retrace  her  steps.  It  sometimes  happens  that 
a  very  trivial  circumstance  will  suddenly 


M ARGOT.  101 

change  the  course  of  our  thoughts,  and  dark- 
ness, better  than  anything  else,  produces  such 
an  effect.  The  stairway  at  la  Honville, — as 
is  the  case  in  many  old-fashioned  buildings, 
— was  constructed  in  a  small  adjacent  tower. 
This  stairway,  which  was  spiral,  wound  around, 
inside  a  hollow  stone  pillar,  filling  it  almost 
completely.  In  her  hesitation,  Margot  leaned 
against  this  pillar  ;  its  icy  coldness,  her  fright 
and  her  grief,  all  combined,  seemed  to  freeze 
her  blood.  She  stood,  a  minute,  motionless  ; 
a  sinister  thought  flashed  through  her  mind  ; 
her  present  faintness  made  her  crave  for 
death — but  that  idea,  strange  to  say,  lasted 
but  a  second,  and  when  it  vanished,  her 
strength  seemed  to  have  come  back.  She  re- 
treated to  her  room  and  locked  herself  in 
again,  until  dawn. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  was  out,  she  descended 
to  the  park.  That  year,  the  autumn  was  su- 
perb ;  the  foliage  in  its  yellow  tints  showed 
a  lovely  golden  hue  ;  no  leaves  as  yet  had 
fallen  from  the  branches,  and  the  drowsy  and 
mellow  wind  seemed  to  respect  the  trees  of  la 
Honville.  The  season  of  the  birds'  tardy 
love-making  was  only  beginning.  Poor  Mar- 
got  did  not  know  so  much  ;  still,  the  benefi- 
cent heat  of  the  sun  acted  as  a  softening  balm 
upon  her  grief.  She  began  to  think  of  her 


i<=>2  M ARGOT. 

father,  of  her  family,  of  religion  ;  she  turned 
to  her  first  impulse  :  to  leave  and  to  resign 
herself.  She  even  came  to  think  that  de- 
parture was  not  so  necessary  after  all  ;  she 
asked  herself  what  harm  she  had  committed 
that  she  should  be  thus  condemned  to  banish- 
ment from  a  place  where  she  had  been  so 
happy.  She  imagined  that  she  could  re- 
main ;  suffering  most  certainly,  but  suffering 
less  than  if  she  had  gone  away.  She  walked 
on,  in  the  darker  paths,  now  with  slow  linger- 
ing steps,  now  with  great  hurried  strides  ; 
now  she  would  stop  and  say,  "  To  love  is 
a  great  thing  ;  how  much  courage  one  must 
have  to  love."  And  this  bracing  thought, 
added  to  the  certainty  that  no  one  in  the 
world  knew  of  her  passion,  made  her  hope  in 
spite  of  herself.  Hope  what  ?  She  did  not 
know,  and,  just  for  that  reason,  she  hoped  all 
the  more.  Her  beloved  secret  seemed  so 
deeply  buried  in  her  heart  that  she  could 
hardly  find  the  courage  to  tear  it  out.  She 
swore  to  keep  it  there  forever,  and  to  protect 
it  against  all,  should  it  lie  in  her  bosom  for 
all  time  to  come.  Against  reason,  illusions 
again  triumphed  over  her  ;  and  loving  as  a 
child,  grieving  as  a  child,  she  consoled  her- 
self as  a  child.  She  thought  of  Gaston's 
blond  hair,  of  the  windows  of  the  Rue  du 


M ARGOT.  103 

Perche  ;  she  tried  to  convince  herself  that 
the  marriage  was  not  settled  yet,  that  she 
had  surely  misunderstood  her  god-mother  ; 
and  then  she  lay  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
and,  exhausted  by  emotion  and  fatigue,  she 
fell  slowly  asleep. 

It  was  noon  when  she  awakened.  She 
looked  around,  hardly  remembering  her 
troubles.  A  slight  noise  heard  at  a  distance 
caused  her  to  turn  her  head  ;  she  saw,  com- 
ing toward  her%  under  the  overhanging  foli- 
age, Gaston  and  Mademoiselle  d€  Vercelles  ; 
they  were  alone,  and  could  not  see  Margot 
hidden  in  the  thicket.  About  the  middle  of 
the  way  Mademoiselle  de  Vercelles  stopped 
and  sat  down  upon  a  rustic  bench  ;  Gaston 
remained  a  moment  standing  before  her, 
looking  into  her  eyes  with  radiant  fondness  ; 
then  he  leaned  on  one  knee,  placed  his  arms 
around  her  and  kissed  her. 

At  this  sight  Margot  rose  as  if  possessed  ; 
an  inexpressible  despair  overwhelmed  her, 
and,  unconscious  of  thought  or  act,  she  fled 
away,  running  toward  the  open  fields. 

VIII. 

Since  Pierrot  had  failed  in  his  great  plan 
of  entering  Gaston's  service,  he  had  become 


104  MARG07\ 

day  by  day  a  sadder  boy.  The  consolation 
he  had  received  from  Margot's  lips  had 
quieted  him  but  a  moment  ;  it  lasted  hardly 
longer  than  the  provisions  that  filled  his 
pockets.  The  more  he  thought  of  his  dear 
Margot,  the  more  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
live  away  from  her  ;  and,  to  speak  the  truth, 
neither  his  life  on  the  farm,  nor  his  usual  as- 
sociates, were  such  as  to  make  him  forget  his 
love.  Thus  it  was  that,  on  the  very  day  of 
our  heroine's  great  despair,  he  was  walking 
on  the  river  bank,  dreamily  driving  before 
him  his  turkey-flock.  He  suddenly  noticed, 
a  hundred  feet  distant,  a  woman  running 
breathlessly,  who,  after  wandering  here  and 
there  for  a  moment,  all  at  once  disappeared 
among  the  willow  trees  that  lined  the  river. 
Such  a  sight  surprised  and  troubled  Pierrot. 
He  also  began  to  run,  trying  to  come  up  with 
the  stranger  ;  but  as  he  reached  the  place 
where  he  had  last  seen  her,  he  looked  in  vain 
for  her  fleeing  figure  over  the  neighboring 
fields.  He  thought  at  first  she  must  have 
entered  the  mill,  which  stood  close  by  ;  then 
seized  with  a  fatal  presentiment,  he  began 
following  the  down-current.  The  Eure  had 
been  swollen  recently  by  heavy  rainfalls,  and 
to  Pierrot,  hardly  in  a  merry  mood,  its  waves 
had  a  sinister  aspect.  He  thought  he  saw 


M ARGOT.  105 

something  white  struggling  among  the  rush- 
es ;  he  approached,  and  having  stretched 
himself  full  length  upon  the  shore,  succeeded 
in  bringing  to  the  bank  a  corpse — the  corpse 
of  Margot  herself.  No  sign  of  life  appeared 
on  the  poor  girl's  face  :  she  was  lying  there 
motionless,  cold  as  marble,  her  eyes  open 
and  still. 

At  the  sight  Pierrot  uttered  such  a  shriek 
that  the  people  at  the  mill  all  came  out  in  a 
crowd.  His  grief  was  so  violent  that  his  first 
impulse  was  to  throw  himself  into  the  water, 
so  as  to  follow  in  death  the  only  being  he 
had  ever  loved.  But  he  bethought  himself 
suddenly  that  drowned  people  could  be  called 
back  to  life  if  cared  for  properly  and  in  good 
time.  The  peasants  all  maintained  that  Mar- 
got  was  dead,  but  he  refused  to  believe 
them,  nor  would  he  allow  her  body  to  be 
taken  to  the  mill.  Carrying  the  corpse  on 
his  shoulders  and  walking  as  fast  as  he 
could,  he  brought  the  dead  girl  to  his  own 
poor  cabin.  Heaven  willed  that  on  the  way 
he  met  the  village  doctor  making  his  medical 
round  on  horseback  ;  he  stopped  him  and 
forced  him  to  enter  his  abode,  so  as  to  hear 
from  his  own  lips  if  there  really  remained  no 
hope. 

The   doctor    agreed    with   the    peasants  ; 


106  M ARGOT. 

hardly  had  he  seen  the  corpse  when  he  cried 
out  :  "  She  is  dead,  dead  ;  there  is  nothing  left 
but  to  bury  her.  Judging  from  the  state  of 
the  body,  she  must  have  been  under  the 
water  fifteen  minutes,  at  least."  Upon  which 
declaration  the  doctor  walked  out  of  the 
cabin,  and,  preparing  himself  to  resume  his 
ride,  stated  that  the  village  mayor  should  be 
notified  at  once. 

Not  only  did  Pierrot  love  Margot  passion- 
ately,  but  he  was  besides  a  very  obstinate 
fellow.  He  knew  very  well  that  the  poor  girl 
had  not  been  fifteen  minutes  under  the  water, 
since  he  had  almost  seen  her  throw  herself  in 
the  river.  So  he  ran  after  the  doctor,  beg- 
ging him,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  not  to 
leave  without  trying  all  earthly  resources. 

"  But  what  resources  are  there  ? "  cried  the 
doctor,  out  of  temper.  "  I  have  with  me  not 
even  one  of  the  necessary  instruments  !  " 

"  I'll  go  and  fetch  them  all  for  you,  sir," 
answered  Pierrot.  "  Just  tell  me  where  they 
are  and  wait  for  me  here  ;  I'll  be  back  in  no 
time.' ' 

The  physician,  in  a  hurry  to  leave,  bit  his 
lips  at  his  silliness  in  having  spoken  of  in- 
struments ;  but  although  persuaded  of  the 
hopelessness  of  his  task,  he  felt  that  he  could 
not  go  without  doing  something,  if  he  wanted 


MAXGOT.  107 

to  save  his  reputation  from  general  condem- 
nation. 

"  Go  then,  and  make  haste,"  he  said  to 
Pierrot.  "  You  will  ask  my  housekeeper  for 
my  great  tin  box,  and  you  will  find  me  here 
when  you  come  back  ;  in  the  mean  time,  I'll 
wrap  the  body  in  the  bed-covers  and  try 
what  rubbing  may  do.  Bring  also  with  you 
some  cinders  ;  we  will  warm  them  here  ;  but 
it  will  amount  to  nothing  more  than  a  loss  of 
time,"  added  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and 
stamping  his  foot.  "  Now  be  quick  !  Do 
you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Pierrot,  "  and  to  go  faster, 
if  your  Honor  will  let  me,  I'll  take  your 
Honor's  horse." 

And  without  waiting  for  the  doctor's  per- 
mission, he  climbed  on  to  the  horse  and  dis- 
appeared. A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  he 
was  coining  back,  galloping,  with  two  large 
bags  full  of  cinders,  one  before,  and  the 
other  behind  him.  "  Your  Honor  sees  that 
I've  lost  no  time,"  he  said,  pointing  at  the 
horse,  all  out  of  breath.  "  I  didn't  talk  on 
the  way,  I  assure  you  ;  your  housekeeper 
was  out,  so  I  settled  everything  myself." 

"  The  devil  you  did,"  grumbled  the  doc- 
tor. "  Here  is  my  horse  in  a  pretty  state  for 
my  day\  work ! "  and,  still  more  out  of 


io8  M ARGOT. 

sorts,  he  began  to  insufflate,  by  means  of  a 
bladder,  some  air  in  poor  Margot's  mouth, 
while  Pierrot  rubbed  her  arms  with  a  will. 
The  fire  was  soon  lighted  and  the  warm  cin- 
ders were  spread  over  the  bed  so  as  to  cover 
it  all.  The  doctor  poured  some  brandy 
between  Margot's  lips,  then  shook  his  head 
and  pulled  out  his  watch.  "  I  am  very 
sorry,"  he  said,  trying  to  look  concerned, 
"  but  I  cannot  allow  the  dead  ones  to  harm 
the  sick  ones  ;  they  are  waiting  for  me,  quite 
a  distance  off,  and  I  must  go  now." 

"  If  your  Honor  will  stay  just  one  half- 
hour  more,"  said  Pierrot,  "  I'll  give  you  a 
crown." 

"  No,  my  boy,  that  must  not  be ;  I  do  not 
want  your  money." 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Pierrot,  slipping  it  in  his 
hand,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  answer. 

It  was  all  the  poor  lad  possessed  in  the 
world  ;  he  had  dragged  it  from  under  his 
straw  mattress  ;  and  the  doctor  took  it,  of 
course. 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  "  one  half-hour 
more;  but,  after  that,  I 'go — prayers  or  no 
prayers.  Don't  you  see  that  it  is  all  use- 
less?" 

Half  an  hour  later,  Margot  still  stiff  and 
ice-cold,  had  shown  no  sign  of  returning  life. 


M ARGOT.  109 

The  doctor  felt  her  pulse  ;  then,  fully  de- 
cided to  go,  he  took  his  hat  and  cane  and 
walked  towards  the  horse.  Pierrot,  all  his 
money  gone,  and  his  supplications  of  no 
avail,  followed  the  physician  out  of  the  hut 
and  stood  in  front  of  his  nag,  in  that  same 
decided  attitude  he  had  displayed  when  he 
met  Gaston  on  the  avenue. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now,"  cried  the  phy- 
sician, "  do  you  want  me  to  sleep  here  ? " 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Pierrot ;  "  but  you'll 
have  to  stay  for  half  an  hour  more  ;  that  will 
rest  your  horse."  As  he  spoke  he  fondled  in 
his  hand  a  stout  club  and  looked  the  doctor 
so  squarely  in  the  eye,  that  the  latter  re- 
entered  the  shanty,  crying  out  in  the  highest 
dudgeon,  "  The  obstinate  fellow  be  blown; 
his  crown  will  make  me  lose  a  louis  !  " 

"  But,"  said  Pierrot,  "  don't  they  say  that 
the  poor  things  sometimes  come  back  to  life 
six  hours  after  the  accident  ?  " 

"  What  ?  Six  hours  ?  Never  in  the  world  ; 
anyhow,  do  you  expect  me  to  stay  here  six 
hours  ?" 

"  So  you  shall,  indeed,"  cried  Pierrot, 
"the  full  six  hours;  unless  you  leave  me 
your  box,  the  tubes  and  all.  Seeing  you 
blow  a  couple  of  hours  more,  I'll  know  how 
to  use  them." 


HO  M ARGOT. 

The  doctor  vainly  worked  himself  into  a 
rage  ;  he  had  to  give  in,  willy  nilly,  and  he 
was  kept  there  busy  for  two  long  hours. 

Then  only  did  Pierrot,  himself  about  to 
lose  all  hope,  let  his  prisoner  escape.  He 
was  thus  left  alone,  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  almost  overcome  by  discourage- 
ment, and  so  he  spent  the  rest  of  the  day,  his 
eyes  riveted  on  Margot's  face.  Night  hav- 
ing set  in,  he  shook  himself,  thinking  it  was 
time  to  go  and  apprize  Goodman  Piedeleu  of 
his  daughter's  death.  He  went  out  of  the 
hut,  closing  the  door  behind  him ;  as  he 
closed  it,  he  seemed  to  hear  a  feeble  voice 
calling  him  back  ;  he  gave  a  start  and  ran 
to  the  bed  ;  nothing  had  changed  ;  he 
thought  himself  deluded.  But  that  single 
second  of  hope  changed  his  resolutions  :  "  I 
will  not  leave  her  yet,"  he  said  ;  "to-morrow 
will  be  time  enough,"  and  he  sat  down  be- 
side the  couch. 

As  he  attentively  considered  Margot's  feat- 
ures, he  thought  suddenly  that  he  saw  a 
change.  Just  before  leaving  her,  she  had 
her  teeth  pressed  tight,  and,  now,  the  mouth 
seemed  half  opened  ;  at  once  he  took  hold 
of  the  doctor's  apparatus  and  tried  to  blow, 
as  the  latter  had  done,  between  Margot's 
lips ;  but  he  managed  the  thing  so  awk- 


M ARGOT.  in 

wardly,  that  the  tube  and  the  bladder  did  not 
work  together.  All  the  air  he  blew  seemed 
wasted  ;  a  few  drops  of  ammonia  poured 
down  the  girl's  lips  could  not  reach  her 
throat.  He  worked  the  tube  again,  but  to 
no  effect ;  nothing  seemed  to  succeed. 
"  What  stupid  machines,"  he  cried  at  last,  all 
out  of  breath.  "  They  are  no  good  anyway," 
and  throwing  aside  the  instrument,  he  leaned 
qver  Margot,  placed  his  lips  over  hers,  and 
in  a  desperate  effort,  blowing  with  all  the 
might  of  his  powerful  lungs,  he  sent  a  gust 
of  vital  air  through  the  young  girl's  breast. 
At  that  very  moment  some  of  the  cinders 
were  thrown  away,  two  feeble  arms  were 
lifted,  and  fell  around  Pierrot's  neck.  Mar- 
got  uttered  a  profound  sigh  and  cried  out, 
"  I  freeze,  I  freeze  !  " 

"  No,  you  don't,"  answered  Pierrot  ;  "  you 
are  covered  with  good  warm  cinders." 

"  That's  so.  But  why  have  they  put  me 
here  ? " 

"  Oh  !  just  to  do  you  good,  that's  all.  How 
do  you  feel  now  ?  " 

"  Not  so  very  bad.  But  how  tired  I  am. 
Just  try  and  raise  me  up  a  little." 

Goodman  Piedeleu  and  Madame  Doradour, 
notified  by  the  doctor,  just  entered  the  hut 
as  the  half-drowned  girl,  partly  undressed, 


H2  M ARGOT. 

and  leaning  lazily  in  Pierrot's  arms,  was 
swallowing  a  spoonful  of  cherry-brandy. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  "  said  the  goodman. 
"  What  is  it  you  have  been  telling  me  ?  Do 
you  know  that  it's  a  crime  to -come  and  tell 
people  that  their  daughter  is  dead  ?  You  had 
better  not  try  such  a  jest  on  me  again,  I 
swear  !  "  and  he  threw  himself  on  his  daugh- 
ter's neck. 

"  Take  care,  dear  papa,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  Don't  hug  me  too  hard  ;  it's  but  £  little 
while  since  I  was  dead." 

Hardly  need  I  paint  the  surprise,  the  de- 
light, of  Madame  Doradour  and  of  all  Mar- 
got's  relatives  who  came  rushing  in,  one  after 
the  other.  Gaston  also  came,  and  Mademoi- 
selle de  Vercelles  ;  but  Madame  Doradour 
having  taken  the  father  aside,  the  goodman 
began  to  understand  how  things  stood.  Re- 
flection, coming  just  a  little  too  late,  had 
thrown  a  clear  light  on  the  matter. 

When  the  goodman  had  been  told  that  love 
was  the  cause  of  his  daughter's  desperate 
resolve,  and  that  she  had  nearly  paid  with 
her  life  for  her  stay  at  her  godmother's  house, 
he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  while. 
Then,  rather  roughly,  he  said  to  Madame 
Doradour  :  "  We  are  quits  now,  Madame  ;  I 
owed  you  much,  but  I  have  repaid  you  in  full." 


M ARGOT.  H3 

And  taking  his  daughter  by  the  hand  he 
le^,  her  to  a  corner  of  the  hut.  "  Look  at 
this,  unhappy  child/'  he  said,  handing  her  a 
white  sheet  prepared  for  a  shroud  ;  "  if  you 
are  an  honest  girl,  keep  it  for  me,  and  don't 
go  a-drowning  again."  Then  coming  to 
Pierrot,  he  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder 
heartily  :  "  Why  don't  you  speak  out,  sir," 
he  cried  ;  "  you,  who  blow  so  well  in  girls' 
mouths  ?  Shall  I  not  pay  you  back  that  crown 
you  gave  to'the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Pierrot,  "  you  can 
pay  it  back  ;  but  nothing  more  ;  not  because 
I  am  proud,  but  because,  although  I  am  of 
no  account,  I " 

"  Go  away,  you  stupid  !  "  replied  the  good- 
man,  giving  him  a  second  sounding  slap. 
"  I'll  bet  that  fellow  has  blown  in  her  mouth 
for  an  hour,  and  has  not  even  kissed  her  !  " 

IX. 

Ten  years  have  elapsed.  The  victorious 
disasters  of  1814  have  covered  France  with 
soldiers.  Surrounded  by  all  Europe's  pow- 
ers, the  Emperor  finishes  as  he  has  begun, 
finding  again  all  the  genius  of  his  Italian 
campaigns  The  Russian  divisions,  march- 
ing towards  Paris  along  the  shores  of  the 
Seine,  have  just  been  routed  at  Nangis,  where 


U4  M ARGOT. 

ten  thousand  of  the  foreigners  have  fallen. 
On  the  evening  of.  that  day,  an  officer,  badly 
wounded  and  hardly  able  to  sit  his  horse, 
had  left  the  army-corps  commanded  by  Gen- 
eral Gerard  and  was  trying  to  reach  Etampes 
by  the  main  road  through  Beauce. 

As  he  passed  a  prosperous  farm-house,  he 
knocked  at  the  door,  asking  shelter  for  the 
night.  The  farmer, — a  sturdy  fellow,  less 
than  twenty-five  years  old, — had  welcomed 
him  and  given  him  his  supper,  when  the  far- 
mer's wife  came  in,  a  young  mother  of  five 
children.  Seeing  her  enter,  the  officer  started 
back  in  surprise,  while  the  handsome  wo- 
man bowed  before  him,  smiling. 

"  Am  I  mistaken  ?  "  asked  the  officer  ; 
"  have  you  not  been  lady  companion  to 
Madame  Doradour,  and  is  not  your  name 
Marguerite  ?  " 

"  At  your  service,"  answered  the  farmer's 
wife  ;  "  and  if  I  remember  well,  I  am  speak- 
ing now  to  Colonel  Count  Gaston  de  la 
Honville.  Here  is  Pierrot  Blanchard,  my 
husband,  to  whom  I  owe  it  that  I  am  still 
alive  ;  kiss  my  children,  Monsieur  le  Comte, 
they  are  all  that  is  left  of  a  family  that  has 
long  and  faithfully  served  yours." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  answered  the  officer  ; 
"  but  what  has  become  of  vour  brothers  ? " 


M 'ARGOT.  US 

"  They  all  remained  on  the  battle-fields  of 
Champaubert  and  Montmirail,"  said  the  wo- 
man in  a  trembling  voice,  "  and  six  years 
ago  our  father  preceded  them." 

"  I,  also,"  pursued  the  officer,  "  I  have  lost 
my  mother,  and  that  single  death  left  me  as 
alone  as  you  are."  At  these  words  he  wiped 
away  a  tear. 

"  Never  mind,  Pierrot,"  he  added  gayly, 
addressing  the  husband  and  stretching  his 
glass  toward  him,  "  let  us  drink  10  ne  mem- 
ory of  our  dead  and  to  the  health  of  your 
children.  There  are  hard  times  in  life  ;  the 
only  thing  is  to  get  over  them." 

The  next  day,  as  he  left  the  farm,  the  offi- 
cer thanked  his  hosts,  and  as  he  was  about 
mounting  his  horse  he  could  not  help  asking 
the  farmer's  wife  : 

"  And  your  old  love,  Margot,  do  you  think 
of  it  sometimes  ?" 

"  Well — Monsieur  le  Comte,"  answered 
Margot,  "  I  believe  I  must  have  left  it  in  the 
river." 

"  And  with  your  Honor's  permission," 
added  Pierrot,  "I  don't  think  I'll  fetch  it 
back." 


A'HE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 


it? 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 


i. 

IN  1756,  when  Louis  XV.,  wearied  with 
the  quarrels  between  the  magistrature  and 
the  grand  council,  about  the  "  two  sous  tax,"  * 
determined  upon  holding  a  special  ///  de 
justice,  the  members  of  Parliament  resigned. 
Sixteen  of  these  resignations  were  accepted, 
and  as  many  exiles  decreed.  "  But,"  said 
Madame  de  Pompadour  to  one  of  the  presi- 
dents, "  could  you  calmly  stand  by  and  see  a 
handful  of  men  resist  the  authority  of  the 
King  of  France  ?  Would  you  not  have  a  very 
bad  opinion  of  such  a  policy  ?  Throw  off  the 
cloak  of  petty  pretence,  M.  le  President, 
and  you  will  see  the  situation  just  as  I  see  it 
myself." 

It  was  not  only  the  exiles  that  had  to  pay 
the  penalty  of  their  want  of  compliance,  but 
also  their  relatives  and  friends.  The  viola- 

*  Two  sous  per  livre  from  the  tenth  of  the  revenue. 
119 


120  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

tion  of  mail-secrets  was  one  of  the  King's 
amusements.  To  relieve  the  monotony  of 
his  other  pleasures,  it  pleased  him  to  hear 
his  favorite  read  all  the  curious  things  that 
were  to  be  found  in  his  subjects'  private 
correspondence.  Of  course,  under  the  fal- 
lacious pretext  of  doing  his  own  detective 
work,  he  reaped  a  large  harvest  of  enjoyment 
from  the  thousand  little  intrigues  which  thus 
passed  under  his  eyes  ;  but  whoever  was 
connected,  whether  closely  or  in  a  remote 
degree,  with  the  leaders  o'f  the  factions,  was 
almost  invariably  ruined. 

Every  one  knows  that  Louis  XV.,  with  all 
his  manifold  weaknesses,  hacl  one,  and  only 
one,  strong  point : — he  was  inexorable. 

One  evening,  as  he  sat  before  the  fire  with 
his  feet  on  the  mantelpiece,  melancholy  as 
was  his  wont,  the  marquise,  looking  through 
a  packet  of  letters,  suddenly  burst  into  a 
laugh  and  shrugged  her  shoulders.  The 
King  wished  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Why,  I  have  found  here,"  answered  she, 
"  a  letter,  without  a  grain  of  common  sense  in 
it,  but  a  very  touching  thing,  for  all  that, — 
quite  pitiable  in  fact." 

"  Whose  is  the  signature  ?  "  said  the  King. 

"  There  is  none,  it  is  a  love-letter." 

"  And  what  is  the  address?  " 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  1 21 

"  That  is  just  the  point.  It  is  addressed 
to  Mademoiselle  d'Annebault,  the  niece  of 
my  good  friend,  Madame  d'Estrades.  Ap- 
parently it  has  been  put  in  among  these 
papers  on  purpose  for  me  to  see." 

"  And  what  is  there  in  it  ? "  the  King 
persisted. 

"  Why,  I  tell  you  it  is  all  about  love.  There 
is  mention  also  of  Vauvert  and  of  Neauflette. 
Are  there  any  gentlemen  in  those  parts  ? 
Does  your  Majesty  know  of  any  ?  " 

The  King  always  prided  himself  upon 
knowing  France  by  heart,  that  is,  the  nobility 
of  France.  The  etiquette  of  his  court,  which 
he  had  studied  thoroughly,  was  not  more 
familiar  to  him  than  the  armorial  bearings  of 
his  realm.  Not  a  very  wide  range  of  learn- 
ing ;  still  nothing  beyond  it  did  he  reckon 
worthy  the  study  ;  and  it  was  a  point  of 
vanity  with  him,  the  social  hierarchy  being, 
in  his  eyes,  something  like  the  marble  stair- 
case of  his  palace  ;  he  must  set  foot  on  it 
as  sole  lord  and  master.  After  having  pon- 
dered a  few  moments,  he  knitted  his  brow, 
as  though  struck  by  an  unwelcome  remem- 
brance ;  then,  with  a  sign  to  the  marquise  to 
read,  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  easy-chair, 
saying  with  a  smile  : 

"  Read  on, — she  is  a  pretty  girl." 


122  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

Madame  de  Pompadour  assumed  her 
sweetest  tone  of  raillery  and  began  to  read  a 
long  letter,  which,  from  beginning  to  end, 
was  one  rhapsody  of  love. 

"  Just  see,"  said  the  writer,  "  how  the  fates 
persecute  me  !  At  first  everything  seemed  to 
work  for  the  fulfilment  of  my  wishes,  and 
you  yourself,  my  sweet  one,  had  you  not  given 
me  reason  to  hope  for  happiness  ?  I  must 
however  renounce  this  heavenly  dream,  and 
that  for  no  fault  of  mine.  Is  it  not  an  excess 
of  cruelty  to  have  let  me  catch  a  glimpse  of 
paradise,  only  to  dash  me  into  the  abyss  ? 
When  some  unfortunate  wretch  is  doomed  to 
death,  do  they  take  a  barbarous  pleasure  in 
placing  before  his  eyes  all  that  would  make 
him  love  life  and  regret  leaving  it?  Such  is, 
however,  my  fate  :  I  have  no  other  refuge, 
no  other  hope,  than  the  tomb,  for,  in  my 
dire  misfortune,  I  can  no  longer  dream  of 
winning  your  hand.  When  fate  smiled  on 
me,  all  my  hopes  were  that  you  should  be 
mine  ;  to-day,  a  poor  man,  I  should  abhor  my- 
self if  I  dared  still  to  think  of  such  blessed- 
ness, and,  now  that  I  can  no  longer  make  you 
happy,  though  dying  of  love  for  you,  I  forbid 
you  to  love  me — " 

The  Marquise  smiled  at  these  last  words. 

"  Madame,"   said   the   King,  "  this  is    an 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  123 

honorable  man.  But  what  prevents  him  from 
marrying  his  lady-love?" 

"Permit  me,  sire,  to  continue." 

"  — This  overwhelming  injustice  from  the 
best  of  kings,  surprises  me.  You  know  that 
my  father  asked  for  me  a  commission  as  cor- 
net or  ensign  in  the  Guards,  and  that  on  this 
appointment  depended  the  happiness  of  my 
life,  since  it  would  give  me  the  right  to  offer 
myself  to  you.  The  Due  de  Biron  proposed 
my  name  ;  but  the  King  rejected  me  in  a 
manner  the  memory  of  which  is  very  bitter 
to  me.  If  my  father  has  his  own  way  of 
looking  at  things  (admitting  that  it  is  a 
wrong  one)  must  I  suffer  for  it  ?  My  devo- 
tion to  the  King  is  as  true,  as  unbounded,  as 
my  love  for  you.  How  gladly  would  I  give 
proof  of  both  these  sentiments,  could  I  but 
draw  the  sword  !  Assuredly  I  feel  deeply  dis- 
tressed at  my  request  being  refused  ;  but  that 
I  should  be  thus  disgraced  without  good  rea- 
son is  a  thing  opposed  to  the  well-known  kind- 
ness of  his  Majesty." 

"  Aha  !  "  said  the  King,  "  I  am  becoming 
interested." 

" — If  you  knew  how  very  dull  we  are  !  Ah  ! 
my  friend  !  This  estate  of  Neauflette,  this 
country-house  of  Vauvert,  these  wooded 
glades  ! — I  wander  about  them  all  day  long. 


124  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

I  have  forbidden  a  rake  to  be  used  ;  the 
sacrilegious  gardener  came  yesterday  with 
his  iron-shod  besom.  He  was  about  to 
touch  the  sand.  But  the  trace  of  your  steps, 
lighter  than  the  wind,  was  not  effaced.  The 
prints  of  your  little  feet  and  of  your  red 
satin  heels  were  still  upon  the  path  ;  they 
seemed  to  walk  before  me,  as  I  followed  your 
beautiful  image,  and  that  charming  phantom 
took  shape  at  times  as  though  it  were  tread- 
ing in  the  fugitive  prints.  It  was  there, 
while  conversing  with  you  by  the  flower-beds, 
that  it  was  granted  me  to  know  you,  to 
appreciate  you.  A  brilliant  education  joined 
to  the  spirit  of  an  angel,  the  dignity  of  a 
queen  with  the  grace  of  a  nymph,  thoughts 
worthy  of  Leibnitz  expressed  in  language  so 
simple,  Plato's  bee  on  the  lips  of  Diana,  all 
this  enfolded  me  as  in  a  veil  of  adoration. 
And,  during  those  delicious  moments,  the 
darling  flowers  were  blooming  about  us,  1 
inhaled  their  breath  whilst  listening  to  you, 
in  their  perfume  your  memory  lived.  They 
droop  their  heads  now  ;  they  present  to  me 
the  semblance  of  death  !  " 

"This  is  all  Rousseau  and  water,"  said 
the  King.  "  Why  do  you  read  such  stuff 
to  me?" 

"  Because  your  Majesty  commanded  me  to 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  125 

do  so,  for  the  sake  of  Mademoiselle  d'Anne- 
bault's  beautiful  eyes." 

"  It  is  true,  she  has  beautiful  eyes." 
" — And  when  I  return  from  these  walks,  I 
find  my  father  alone,  in  the  great  drawing- 
room,  near  the  lighted  candle,  leaning  on  his 
elbow,  amidst  the  faded  gildings  which  cover 
our  mouldy  wainscot.  It  is  with  pain  that 
he  sees  me  enter.  My  grief  disturbs  his. 
Athenai's  !  At  the  back  of  that  drawing- 
room,  near  the  window,  is  the  harpsichord 
over  which  flitted  those  sweet  fingers  that  my 
lips  have  touched  but  once. — once,  while 
yours  opened  softly  to  harmonies  of  celestial 
music, — opened  with  such  dainty  art  that 
your  songs  were  but  a  smile.  How  happy 
are  they, — Raineau,  Lulli,  Duni,  and  so  many 
more  !  Yes,  yes,  you  love  them, — they  are 
in  your  memory, — their  breath  has  passed 
through  your  lips.  I  too  seat  myself  at  that 
harpsichord,  I  strive  to  play  one  of  those  airs 
that  you  love  ; — how  cold,  how  monotonous 
they  seem  to  me  !  I  leave  them  and  listen 
to  their  dying  accents  while  the  echo  loses 
itself  beneath  that  lugubrious  vault.  My 
father  turns  to  me  and  sees  me  distressed, — 
what  can  he  do  ?  Some  boudoir  gossip,  some 
report  from  the  servants'  hall  has  closed  upon 
us  the  gates  that  lead  into  the  world.  He 


126  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

sees  me  young,  ardent,  full  of  life,  asking 
only  to  live  in  this  world,  he  is  my  father,  and 
can  do  nothing  for  me." 

"  One  would  think,"  said  the  King,  "  that 
this  fellow  was  starting  for  the  hunt,  and 
that  his  falcon  had  been  killed  on  his  wrist. 
Against  whom  is  he  inveighing,  may  I  ask  ? " 

" — It  is  quite  true,"  continued  the  Mar- 
quise, reading  in  a  lower  tone,  ;'  It  is  quite 
true  that  we  are  near  neighbors,  and  distant 
relatives,  of  the  Abbe  Chauvelin " 

"  That  is  what  it  is,  is  it  ?  said  Louis  XV., 
yawning.  "  Another  nephew  of  the  enquetes 
et  requetes.  My  Parliament  abuses  my  boun- 
ty ;  it  really  has  too  large  a  family." 

"  But  if  it  is  only  a  distant  relative  !  "  , 

"  Enough  ;  all  these  people  are  good  for 
nothing.  This  Abbe  Chauvelin  is  a  Jan- 
senist ;  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  in  his  way  ; 
but  he  has  dared  to  resign.  Please,  throw 
the  letter  into  the  fire,  and  let  me  hear  no 
more  about  it." 

II. 

If  these  last  words  of  the  King  were  not 
exactly  a  death-warrant,  they  were  something 
like  a  refusal  of  permission  to  live.  What  could 
a  young  man  without  fortune  do,  in  1756, 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  127 

whose  King  would  not  hear  his  name  men- 
tioned ?  He  might  have  looked  for  a  clerk- 
ship, or  tried  to  turn  philosopher,  or  poet, 
perhaps  ;  but  without  official  dedication,  the 
trade  was  worth  nothing. 

And  besides,  such  was  not,  by  any  means, 
the  vocation  of  the  Chevalier  Vauvert,  who 
had  written,  with  tears,  the  letter  which  made 
the  King  laugh.  At  this  very  moment,  alone 
with  his  father,  in  the  old  chateau  of  Neau- 
flette,  his  look  was  desperate  and  gloomy, 
even  to  frenzy,  as  he  paced  to  and  fro. 

"  I  must  go  to  Versailles,"  he  said. 

'"And  what  will  you  do  there?" 

"  I  know  not  ;  but  what  am  I  doing  here  ?" 

"  You  keep  me  company.  It  certainly  can- 
not be  very  amusing  for  you,  and  I  will  not 
in  any  way  seek  to  detain  you.  But  do  you 
forget  that  your  mother  is  dead  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  promised  her  to  consecrate  to 
you  the  life  that  you  gave  me.  I  will  come 
back,  but  I  must  go.  I  really  cannot  stay  in 
this  place  any  longer." 

"  And  why,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"  My  desperate  love  is  the  only  reason.  I 
love  Mademoiselle  d'Annebault  madly." 

"  But  you  know  that  it  is  useless.  It  is 
only  Moliere  who  contrives  successful 
matches  without  dowries.  Do  you  forget 


128  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

too  the  disfavor  with  which  I  am  re- 
garded ? " 

"  Ah  !  sir,  that  disfavor !  Might  I  be  al- 
lowed, without  deviating  from  the  profound 
respect  I  owe  you,  to  ask  what  caused  it  ?  We 
do  not  belong  to  the  Parliament.  We  pay 
the  tax  ;  we  do  not  order  it.  If  the  Parlia- 
ment stints  the  King's  purse,  it  is  his  affair, 
not  ours.  Why  should  M.  TAbte  Chauvelin 
drag  us  into  his  ruin  ?" 

"  Monsieur  1'Abbe  Chauvelin  acts  as  an 
honest  man.  He  refuses  to  approve  the 
'  dixieme  '  tax  because  he  is  disgusted  at  the 
prodigality  of  the  court.  Nothing  of  this 
kind  would  have  taken  place  in  the  days  of 
Madame  de  Chateauroux  !  She  was  beauti- 
ful, at  least,  that  woman,  and  did  not  cost  us 
anything,  not  even  what  she  so  generously 
gave.  She  was  sovereign  mistress,  and  de- 
clared that  she  would  be  satisfied  if  the  King 
did  not  send  her  to  rot  in  some  dungeon  when 
he  should  be  pleased  to  withdraw  his  good 
graces  from  her.  But  this  Etioles,.this  le 
Normand,  this  insatiable  Poisson  !  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  !  say  you  ?  More 
than  you  think.  Do  you  know  that  now,  at 
this  very  time,  while  the  King  is  plundering 
us,  the  fortune  of  this  grisette  is  incalculable  ? 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  129 

She  began  by  contriving  to  get  an  annuity  of 
a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  livres — but 
that  was  a  mere  bagatelle,  it  counts  for 
nothing  now  ;  you  can  form  no  idea  of  the 
startling  sums  that  the  King  showers  upon 
her  ;  three  months  of  the  year  cannot  pass 
without  her  picking  up,  as  though  by  chance, 
some  five  or  six  hundred  thousand  livres — 
yesterday  out  of  the  salt-tax,  to-day  out  of 
the  increase  in  the  appropriation  for  the 
Royal  mews.  Although  she  has  her  own 
quarters  in  the  royal  residences,  she  buys  la 
Selle,  Cressy,  Aulnay,  Brimborion,  Marigny, 
Saint-Remy,  Bellevue,  and  a  number  of  other 
estates, — mansions  in  Paris,  in  Fontainebleau, 
Versailles,  Compiegne, — without  counting  se- 
cret hoards  in  all  the  banks  of  Europe,  to  be 
used  in  case  of  her  own  disgrace  or  a  demise 
of  the  crown.  And  who  pays  for  all  this,  if 
you  please  ? " 

"  That  I  do  not  know,  sir,  but,  certainly, 
not  I." 

"  It  is  you,  as  well  as  everybody  else.  It  is 
France,  it  is  the  people  who  toil  and  moil, 
who  riot  in  the  streets,  who  insult  the  statue 
of  Pigalle.  But  Parliament  will  endure  it  no 
longer,  it  will  have  no  more  new  imposts.  As 
long  as  there  was  question  of  defraying  the 
cost  of  the  war,  our  last  crown  was  ready  ;  we 


13°  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

had  no  thought  of  bargaining.  The  victo. 
rious  King  could  see  clearly  that  he  was  be- 
loved by  the  whole  kingdom,  still  more  so 
when  he  was  at  the  point  of  death.  Then  all 
dissensions,  all  faction,  all  ill-feeling  ceased. 
All  France  knelt  before  the  sick-bed  of  the 
King,  and  prayed  for  him.  But  if  we  pay, 
without  counting,  for  his  soldiers  and  his  doc- 
tors, we  will  no  longer  pay  for  his  mistresses  ; 
we  have  other  things  to  do  with  our  money 
than  to  support  Madame  de  Pompadour." 

"ml  do  not  defend  her,  sir.  I  could  not 
pretend  to  say  either  that  she  was  in  the 
wrong  or  in  the  right.  I  have  never  seen 
her." 

"  Doubtless  ;  and  you  would  not  be  sorry 
to  see  her, — is  it  not  so  ? — in  order  to  have  an 
opinion  on  the  subject  ?  For,  at  your  age, 
the  head  judges  through  the  eyes.  Try  it 
then,  if  the  fancy  takes  you.  But  the  satis- 
faction will  be  denied  you." 

"  Why,  sir  ?  " 

"  Because  such  an  attempt  is  pure  folly  ; 
because  this  marquise  is  as  invisible  in  her 
little  boudoir  at  Brimborion  as  the  Grand 
Turk  in  his  seraglio  ;  because  every  door 
will  be  shut  in  your  face.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?  Attempt  an  impossibility? 
Court  fortune  like  an  adventurer?" 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  131 

"  By  no  means,  but  like  a  lover.  I  do  not 
;ntend  to  supplicate,  sir,  but  to  protest  against 
an  injustice.  I  had  a  well-founded  hope, 
almost  a  promise,  from  M.  de  Biron  ;  I  was 
on  the  eve  of  possessing  the  object  of  my 
love,  and  this  rove  is  not  unreasonable  ;  you 
have  not  disapproved  of  it.  Let  me  venture, 
then,  to  plead  mv  own  cause.  Whether  I 
shall  appeal  to  the  iCing  or  to  Madame  de 
Pompadour  I  know  wot,  but  I  wish  to  set 
out." 

"You  do  not  know  wn*t  the  court  is,  and 
you  wish  to  present  yourserf  there." 

"I  may  perhaps  be  trie  more  easily 
received  for  the  very  reason  that  I  am 
unknown  there." 

"  You  unknown,  Chevalier !  What  are 
you  thinking  about  ?  With  such  a  name  as 
yours  !  We  are  gentlemen  of  an  old  stock, 
Monsieur  ;  you  could  not  be  unknown." 

"  Well,  then,  the  King  will  listen  to  me." 

"  He  will  not  even  hear  you.  You  see 
Versailles  in  your  dreams,  and  you  will  think 
yourself  there  when  your  postilion  stops  his 
horses  at  the  city  gates.  Suppose  you  get  as 
far  as  the  antechamber, — the  gallery,  the  Oeil- 
de  Bceuf  ;  perhaps  there  may  be  nothing  be- 
tween his  Majesty  and  yourself  but  the  thick- 
ness of  a  door  ;  there  will  still  be  an  abyss  for 


I32  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

you  to  cross.  You  will  look  about  you,  you 
will  seek  expedients,  protection,  and  you  will 
find  nothing.  We  are  relatives  of  M.  de 
Chauvelin,  and  how  do  you  think  the  King 
takes  vengeance  on  such  as  we?  The  rack 
for  Damiens,  exile  for  the  Parliament,  but 
for  us  a  word  is  enough,  or,  worse  still, — 
silence.  Do  you  know  what  the  silence  of 
the  King  is,  when,  instead  of  replying  to  you, 
he  mutely  stares  at  you,  as  he  passes,  and 
annihilates  you  ?  After  the  Greve,  and  the 
Bastille,  this  is  a  degree  of  torture  which, 
though  less  cruel  in  appearance,  leaves  its 
mark  as  plainly  as  the  hand  of  the  execu- 
tioner. The  condemned  man,  it  is  true,  re- 
mains free,  but  he  must  no  longer  think  of 
approaching  woman  or  courtier,  drawing- 
room,  abbey,  or  barrack.  As  he  moves  about 
every  door  closes  upon  him,  every  one  who 
is  anybody  turns  away,  and  thus  he  walks  this 
way  and  that,  in  an  invisible  prison." 

"•  But  I  will  so  bestir  myself  in  my  prison 
that  I  shall  get  out  of  it." 

"  No  more  than  any  one  else  !  The  son  of 
M.  de  Meynieres  was  no  more  to  blame  than 
you.  Like  you,  he  had  received  promises, 
he  entertained  most  legitimate  hopes.  His 
father,  a  devoted  subject  of  his  Majesty,  an 
upright  man  if  there  is  one  in  the  kingdom. 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  133 

repulsed  by  his  sovereign,  bowed  his  gray 
head  before  the  grisetie,  not  in  prayer,  but  in 
ardent  pleading.  Do  you  know  what  she  re- 
plied ?  Here  are  her  very  words,  which  M. 
de  Meynieres  sends  me  in  a  letter, — '  The 
King  is  the  master,  he  does  not  deem  it  ap- 
propriate to  signify  his  displeasure  to  you 
personally  ;  he  is  content  to  make  you  aware 
of  it  by  depriving  your  son  of  a  calling.  To 
punish  you  otherwise  would  be  to  begin  an 
unpleasantness,  and  he  wishes  for  none  ;  we 
must  respect  his  will.  I  pity  you,  however, 
I  realize  your  troubles.  I  have  been  a 
mother  ;  I  know  what  it  must  cost  you  to 
leave  your  son  without  a  profession  ! '  This 
is  how  the  creature  expresses  herself  ;  and 
you  wish  to  put  yourself  at  her  feet !  " 
"  They  say  they  are  charming,  sir." 
"  Of  course  they  say  so.  She  is  not  pretty, 
and  the  King  does  not  love  her,  as  every  one 
knows.  He  yields,  he  bends  before  this 
woman.  She  must  have  something  else  than 
that  wooden  head  of  hers  to  maintain  her 
strange  power." 

"  But  they  say  she  has  so  much  wit." 
"  And  no  heart ! — Much  to  her  credit,  no 
doubt." 

"  No  heart !     She  who  knows  so  well  how 
to  declaim  the  lines  of  Voltaire,  how  to  sing 


134  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

the  music  of  Rousseau  !  She  who  plays 
Alzire  and  Colette  !  No  heart  !  Oh,  that 
cannot  be  !  I  will  never  believe  it." 

"  Go  then  and  see,  since  you  wish  it.  I 
advise,  I  do  not  command,  but  you  will  only 
be  at  the  expense  of  a  useless  journey. — You 
love  this  d'Annebault  young  lady  very  much 
then  ?  " 

"  More  than  my  life." 

"Alors,  be  off !" 

III. 

It  has  been  said  that  journeys  injure  love, 
because  they  distract  the  mind  ;  it  has  also 
been  said  that  they  strengthen  love,  because 
they  give  one  time  to  dream  over  it.  The 
chevalier  was  too  young  to  make  such  nice 
distinctions.  Weary  of  the  carriage,  when 
half-way  on  his  journey,  he  had  taken  a 
saddle-hack  and  thus  arrived  towards  five 
o'clock  in  the  evening  at  the  "  Sun  "  Inn — a 
sign  then  out  of  fashion,  since  it  dated  back 
to  the  time  of  Louis  XIV. 

There  was,  at  Versailles,  an  old  priest  who 
had  been  rector  of  a  church  near  Neauflette  ; 
the  chevalier  knew  him  and  loved  him.  This 
cure,  poor  and  simple  himself,  had  a  nephew, 
who  held  a  benefice,  a  court  abbe",  who  might 
therefore  be  useful.  So  the  chevalier  went 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  135 

to  this  nephew  who — man  of  importance  as 
he  was, — his  chin  ensconced  in  his  '*  rabat," 
received  the  new-comer  civilly,  and  con- 
descended to  listen  to  his  request. 

"  Come  !  "  said  he,  "  you  arrive  at  a  for- 
tunate moment.  This  is  to  be  an  opera-night 
at  the  court,  some  sort  of  fete  or  other.  I  am 
not  going,  because  I  am  sulking  so  as  to 
get  something  out  of  the  marquise  ;  but 
here  I  happen  to  have  a  note  from  the 
Due  d'Aumont  ;  I  asked  for  it  for  some  one 
else,  but  never  mind,  you  can  have  it.  Go  to 
the  fete  ;  you  have  not  yet  been  presented, 
it  is  true,  but,  for  this  entertainment,  that  is 
not  necessary.  Try  to  be  in  the  King's  way 
when  he  goes  into  the  little  foyer.  One  look, 
and  your  fortune  is  made." 

The  chevalier  thanked  the  abbe,  and,  worn 
out  by  a  disturbed  night  and  a  day  on  horse- 
back, he  made  his  toilet  at  the  inn  in  that 
negligent  manner  which  so  well  becomes  a 
lover.  A  maid-servant,  whose  experience  had 
been  decidedly  limited,  dressed  his  wig  as 
best  she  could,  covering  his  spangled  coat 
with  powder.  Thus  he  turned  his  steps  to- 
wards his  luck  with  the  hopeful  courage  of 
twenty  summers. 

The  night  was  falling  when  he  arrived  at 
the  chateau.  He  timidly  advanced  to  the 


I36  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

gate  and  asked  his  way  of  a  sentry.  He  was 
shown  the  grand  staircase.  There,  he  was 
informed  by  the  tall  Swiss  that  the  opera  had 
just  commenced,  and  that  the  King,  that  is 
to  say,  everybody,  was  in  the  hall.* 

"  If  Monsieur  le  Marquis  will  cross  the 
court,"  added  the  doorkeeper  (he  conferred 
the  title  of  "Marquis"  at  a  venture),  "  he 
will  be  at  the  play  in  an  instant.  If  he  pre- 
fers to  go  through  the  apartments — " 

The  chevalier  was  not  acquainted  with  the 
palace.  Curiosity  prompted  him,  at  first, 
to  reply  that  he  would  cross  the  apartments  ; 
then,  as  a  lackey  offered  to  follow  as  a  guide, 
an  impulse  of  vanity  made  him  add  that  he 
needed  no  escort.  He,  therefore,  went  for- 
ward alone,  but  not  without  a  certain  emotion 
of  timidity. 

Versailles  was  resplendent  with  light. 
From  the  ground-floor  to  the  roof  there 
glittered  and  blazed  lustres,  chandeliers, 

*  This  does  not  refer  to  the  present  theatre,  built  by 
Louis  XV.,  or  rather  by  Madame  de  Pompadour,  but 
only  completed  in  1769  and  inaugurated  in  1770,  for 
the  marriage  of  the  Due  de  Berri  (Louis  XVI.)  with 
Marie  Antoinette.  The  "  hall  "  in  question  was  a  sort 
of  portable  theatre,  that  was  moved  into  this  or  that 
gallery  or  apartment,  after  the  manner  in  vogue  in  the 
days  of  Louis  XIV. 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  137 

gilded  furniture,  marbles.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  the  Queen's  apartment,  the  doors 
were  everywhere  thrown  open.  As  the  che- 
valier walked  on  he  was  struck  with  an  as- 
tonishment and  an  admiration  better  imagined 
than  described,  for  the  wonder  of  the  spec- 
tacle that  offered  itself  to  his  gaze  was  not 
only  the  beauty,  the  sparkle  of  the  display 
itself,  but  the  absolute  solitude  which  sur- 
rounded him  in  this  enchanted  wilderness. 

To  find  one's  self  alone  in  a  vast  enclosure, 
be  it  temple,  cloister,  or  castle,  produces  a 
strange,  even  a  weird  feeling.  The  monu- 
ment— whatever  it  be — seems  to  weigh  upon 
the  solitary  individual  ;  its  walls  gaze  at  him  ; 
its  echoes  are  listening  to  him  ;  the  noise  of 
his  steps  breaks  in  upon  a  silence  so  deep  that 
he  is  impressed  by  an  involuntary  fear  and 
dares  not  advance  without  a  feeling  akin  to 
awe.  Such  were  the  chevalier's  first  impres- 
sions, but  curiosity  soon  got  the  upper  hand 
and  drew  him  on.  The  candelabra  of  the 
Gallery  of  Mirrors,  looking  into  the  polished 
surfaces,  saw  their  flames  redoubled  in  them. 
Every  one  knows  what  countless  thousands 
of  cherubs,  nymphs,  and  shepherdesses  dis- 
port themselves  on  the  panellings,  flutter 
about  on  the  ceilings,  and  seem  to  encircle 
the  entire  palace  as  with  an  immense  garland. 


I38  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

Here,  vast  halls,  with  canopies  of  velvet  shot 
with  gold  and  chairs  of  state  still  impressed 
with  the  stiff  majesty  of  the  "  great  King"; 
there,  creased  and  disordered  ottomans, 
chairs  in  confusion  around  a  card-table  ;  a 
never-ending  succession  of  empty  salons, 
where  all  this  magnificence  shone  out  the 
more  that  it  seemed  entirely  useless.  At  in- 
tervals were  half-concealed  doors  opening 
upon  corridors  that  extended  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  a  thousand  staircases,  a 
thousand  passages  crossing  each  other  as  in 
a  labyrinth  ;  colonnades,  raised  platforms 
built  for  giants,  boudoirs  ensconced  in 
corners  like  children's  hiding-places,  an 
enormous  painting  of  Vanloo  near  a  mantel 
of  porphyry  ;  a  forgotten  patch-box,  lying 
beside  a  piece  of  grotesque  Chinese  work- 
manship ;  here  a  crushing  grandeur,  there  an 
effeminate  grace ;  and  everywhere,  in  the 
midst  of  luxury,  of  prodigality,  and  of  in- 
dolence, a  thousand  intoxicating  odors, 
strange  and  diverse,  mingled  perfumes  of 
flowers  and  women,  an  enervating  warmth, 
the  very  material  and  sensible  atmosphere 
of  pleasure  itself. 

To  be  in  such  a  place,  amid  such  marvels, 
at  twenty,  and  to  be  there  alone,  is  surely 
quite  sufficient  cause  for  temporary  intoxi- 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  139 

cation.  The  chevalier  advanced  at  hap- 
hazard, as  in  a  dream. 

"  A  very  palace  of  fairies,"  he  murmured, 
and,  indeed,  he  seemed  to  behold,  unfolding 
itself  before  him,  one  of  those  tales  in  which 
wandering  knights  discover  enchanted  castles. 
Were  they  indeed  mortal  creatures  that  in- 
habited this  matchless  abode  ?  Were  they 
real  women  who  came  and  sat  on  these  chairs 
and  whose  graceful  outlines  had  left  on  those 
cushions  that  slight  impress,  so  suggestive, 
even  yet,  of  indolence  ?  Who  knows  but 
that,  behind  those  thick  curtains,  at  the  end 
of  some  long  dazzling  gallery,  there  may  per- 
haps soon  appear  a  princess  asleep  for  the 
last  hundred  years,  a  fairy  in  hoops,  an  Ar- 
mida  in  spangles,  or  some  court  hamadryad 
that  shall  issue  forth  from  this  marble  column, 
or  burst  from  out  of  that  gilded  panel  ? 

Bewildered,  almost  overpowered,  at  the 
sight  of  all  these  novel  objects,  the  young 
chevalier,  in  order  the  better  to  indulge  his 
reverie,  had  thrown  himself  on  a  sofa,  and 
would  doubtless  have  forgotten  himself  there 
for  some  time  had  he  not  remembered  that 
he  was  in  love.  What,  at  this  hour,  was 
Mademoiselle  d'Annebault,  his  beloved,  doing 
— left  behind  in  her  old  chateau  ? 

"  Athenai's  !  "  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  Why 


14°  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

do  I  thus  waste  my  time  here?  Is  my  mind 
wandering  ?  Great  heavens  !  Where  am  I  ? 
And  what  is  going  on  within  me?" 

He  soon  rose  and  continued  his  travels 
through  this  terra  incognita,  and  of  course  lost 
his  way.  Two  or  three  lackeys,  speaking  in 
a  low  voice,  stood  before  him  at  the  end  of  a 
gallery.  He  walked  towards  them  and  asked 
how  he  should  find  his  way  to  the  play. 

"If  M.  le  Marquis/'  he  was  answered  (the 
same  title  being  still  benevolently  granted 
him)  "  will  give  himself  the  trouble  to  go 
down  that  staircase  and  follow  the  gallery  on 
the  right,  he  will  find  at  the  end  of  it  three 
steps  going  up  ;  he  will  then  turn  to  the  left, 
go  through  the  Diana  salon,  that  of  Apollo, 
that  of  the  Muses,  and  that  of  Spring  ;  he 
will  go  down  six  steps  more,  then,  leaving  the 
Guards'  Hall  on  his  right  and  crossing  over 
to  the  Ministers'  staircase,  he  will  not  fail  to 
meet  there  other  ushers  who  will  show  him 
the  way." 

"  Much  obliged,"  said  the  chevalier,  "  with 
such  excellent  instruction,  it  will  certainly  be 
my  fault  if  I  do  not  find  my  way." 

He  set  off  again  boldly,  constantly  stop- 
ping, however,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  look 
from  side  to  side,  then  once  more  remem- 
bering his  love.  At  last,  at  the  end  of  a  full 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  141 

quarter  of  an  hour,  he  once  more  found,  as 
he  had  been  told,  a  group  of  lackeys. 

"  M.  le  Marquis  is  mistaken,"  they  informed 
him;  "it  is  through  the  other  wing  of  the 
chateau  that  he  should  have  gone,  but  nothing 
is  easier  for  him  than  to  retrace  his  steps. 
M.  le  Marquis  has  but  to  go  down  this 
staircase,  then  he  will  cross  the  salon  of  the 
Nymphs,  that  of  Summer,  that  of — " 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  chevalier,  proceed- 
ing on  his  way.  "  How  foolish  I  am,"  he 
thought,  "  to  go  on  asking  people  in  this  fash- 
ion like  a  rustic.  I  am  making  myself  ridicu- 
lous to  no  purpose,  and  even  supposing — 
though  it  is  not  likely — that  they  are  not 
laughing  at  me,  of  what  use  is  their  list  of 
names,  and  the  pompous  sobriquets  of  these 
salons,  not  one  of  which  I  know?" 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  go  straight  before 
him  as  far  as  possible  ;  "  For,  after  all,"  said 
he  to  himself,  "  this  palace  is  very  beautiful 
and  prodigiously  vast,  but  it  is  not  boundless, 
and,  were  it  three  times  as  large  as  our  rabbit- 
enclosure,  I  must  at  last  reach  the  end  of  it." 

But  it  is  not  easy  in  Versailles  to  walk  on 
for  a  long  time  in  one  direction,  and  this 
rustic  comparison  of  the  royal  dwelling  to 
a  rabbit-enclosure  doubtless  displeased  the 
nymphs  of  the  place,  for  they  at  once  set 


142  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

about  leading  the  poor  lover  astray  more  than 
ever,  and,  doubtless,  to  punish  him,  took 
pleasure  in  making  him  retrace  his  steps  over 
and  over  again,  constantly  bringing  him  back 
to  the  same  place,  like  a  countryman  lost  in 
a  thicket  of  quickset ;  thus  did  they  shut  him 
in  in  this  Cretan  labyrinth  of  marble  and  gold. 
In  the  "  Antiquities  of  Rome,"  by  Piranesi, 
there  is  a  series  of  engravings  which  the 
artist  calls  "his  dreams,"  and  which  are  sup- 
posed to  reproduce  his  own  visions  during 
a  fit  of  delirious  fever.  These  engravings 
represent  vast  Gothic  halls ;  on  the  flag- 
stones are  strewn  all  sorts  of  engines  and 
machines,  wheels,  cables,  pulleys,  levers,  cata- 
pults, the  expression  of  enormous  power 
and  formidable  resistance.  Along  the 
walls  you  perceive  a  staircase,  and  upon 
this  staircase,  climbing,  not  without  trouble, 
Piranesi  himself.  Follow  the  steps  a  little 
higher  and  they  suddenly  come  to  an  end 
before  an  abyss.  Whatever  has  happened 
to  poor  Piranesi,  you  think  that  he  has, 
at  any  rate,  reached  the  end  of  his  labors, 
for  he  cannot  take  another  step  without 
falling  ;  but  lift  your  eyes  and  you  will 
see  a  second  staircase  rising  in  the  air,  and 
upon  these  stairs  Piranesi  again,  again  on 
the  brink  of  a  precipice 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  143 

Look  now  still  higher,  and  another  stair- 
case still  rises  before  you,  and  again  poor 
Piranesi  continuing  his  ascent,  and  so  on, 
until  the  everlasting  staircase  and  the  ever- 
lasting Piranesi  disappear  together  in  the 
skies  ;  that  is  to  say,  in  the  border  of  the 
engraving. 

This  allegory,  offspring  of  a  nightmare, 
represents  with  a  high  degree  of  accuracy 
the  tedium  of  useless  labor  and  the  species 
of  vertigo  which  is  brought  on  by  impatience. 
The  chevalier,  wandering  incessantly  from 
salon  to  salon  and  from  gallery  to  gallery, 
was  at  last  seized  with  a  fit  of  downright 
exasperation. 

"  Parbleu,"  said  he,  "  but  this  is  cruel  ! 
After  having  been  so  charmed,  so  enraptured, 
so  enthralled,  to  find  myself  alone  in  this 
cursed  palace."  (It  was  no  longer  a  palace 
of  fairies  !)  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get 
out  of  it  !  A  plague  upon  the  infatuation 
which  inspired  me  with  the  idea  of  entering 
this  place,  like  Prince  Fortunatus  with  his 
boots  of  solid  gold,  instead  of  simply  getting 
the  first  lackey  I  came  across  to  take  me  to 
the  play  at  once  !  " 

The  chevalier  experienced  this  tardy  feel- 
ing of  repentance  for  his  rashness  at  a 
moment  when,  like  Piranesi,  he  was  half-way 


144  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

up  a  staircase,  on  a  landing  between  three 
doors.  Behind  the  middle  one,  he  thought 
he  heard  a  murmur  so  sweet,  so  light,  so 
voluptuous,  that  he  could  not  help  listening. 
At  the  very  instant  when  he  was  tremblingly 
advancing  with  the  indiscreet  intention  of 
eavesdropping,  this  door  swung  open.  A 
breath  of  air,  balmy  with  a  thousand  per- 
fumes, a  torrent  of  light  that  rendered  the 
very  mirrors  of  the  gallery  lustreless  struck 
him  so  suddenly  that  he  perforce  stepped 
back. 

"  Does  Monsieur  le  Marquis  wish  to 
enter  ?  "  asked  the  usher  who  had  opened 
the  door. 

"  I  wish  to  go  to  the  play,"  replied  the 
chevalier. 

"  It  is  just  this  moment  over." 

At  the  same  time,  a  bevy  of  beautiful 
ladies,  their  complexions  delicately  tinted 
with  white  and  carmine,  escorted  by  lords, 
old  and  young,  who  led  them,  not  by  the 
arm,  nor  even  by  the  hand,  but  by  the  tips 
of  their  fingers,  began  filing  out  from  the 
Palace  Theatre,  taking  great  care  to  walk  side- 
ways, in  order  not  to  disarrange  their  hoops. 

All  of  these  brilliant  people  spoke  in  a  low 
voice,  with  an  air  half  grave  half  gay,  a 
mixture  of  awe  and  respect. 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  145 

"  What  can  this  be  ?  "  said  the  Chevalier, 
not  guessing  that  chance  had  luckily  brought 
him  to  the  little  foyer. 

"  The  King  is  about  to  pass,"  replied  the 
usher. 

There  is  a  kind  of  intrepidity  which  hesi- 
tates at  nothing  ;  it  comes  but  too  easily,  it 
is  the  courage  of  vulgar  people.  Our  young 
provincial,  although  he  was  reasonably  brave, 
did  not  possess  this  faculty.  At  the  mere 
words,  "  The  King  is  about  to  pass,"  he 
stood  motionless  and  almost  terror-stricken. 

King  Louis  XV.,  who  when  out  hunting 
would  ride  on  horseback  a  dozen  leagues 
with  ease,  was,  in  other  respects,  as  is  known, 
royally  indolent.  He  boasted,  not  without 
reason,  that  he  was  the  first  gentleman  of 
France,  and  his  mistresses  used  to  tell  him, 
not  without  truth,  that  he  was  the  best  built 
and  the  most  handsome.  It  was  something  to 
remember  to  see  him  leave  his  chair,  and 
deign  to  walk  in  person.  When  he  crossed 
the  foyer,  with  one  arm  laid,*  or  rather 
stretched,  on  the  shoulder  of  Monsieur  d'Ar- 
genson,  while  his  red  heel  glided  over  the 
polished  floor  (he  had  made  his  laziness  the 
fashion)  all  whisperings  ceased  ;  the  courtiers 
lowered  their  heads,  not  daring  to  bow  out- 
right, and  the  fine  ladies,  gently  bending 


146  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

their  knees  within  the  depths  of  their  im- 
mense furbelows,  ventured  that  coquettish 
good-night  which  our  grandmothers  called  o 
curtsey,  and  which  our  century  has  replaced 
by  the  brutal  English  shake  of  the  hand. 

But  the  King  paid  attention  to  nothing, 
and  saw  only  what  pleased  him.  Alfieri, 
perhaps,  was  there,  and  it  is  he  who  thus 
describes,  in  his  memoirs,  his  presentation 
at  Versailles  : 

"  I  well  knew  that  the  king  never  spoke  to 
strangers  who  were  not  of  striking  appear- 
ance ;  all  the  same  I  could  not  brook  the  im- 
passible and  frowning  demeanor  of  Louis 
XV.  He  scanned  from  head  to  foot  the  man 
who  was  being  presented  to  him,  and  it  looked 
as  if  he  received  no  impression  by  so  doing. 
It  seems  to  me,  however,  that  if  one  were  to 
say  to  a  giant,  '  Here  is  an  ant  I  present  to 
you,'  he  would  smile  on  looking  at  it,  or  per- 
haps say,  '  Oh  !  what  a  little  creature.'  " 

The  taciturn  monarch  thus  passed  among 
these  flowers  of  feminine  loveliness,  and  all 
this  court,  alone  in  spite  of  the  crowd.  It 
did  not  require  of  the  chevalier  much  re- 
flection to  understand  that  he  had  nothing  to 
hope  from  the  king,  and  that  the  recital  of 
his  love  would  obtain  no  success  in  that 
quarter. 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  147 

"Unfortunate  that  I  am!"  thought  he. 
"  My  father  was  but  too  well  informed  when 
he  told  me  that  within  two  steps  of  the  king 
I  should  see  an  abyss  between  him  and  me. 
Were  I  to  venture  to  ask  for  an  audience, 
who  would  be  my  patron  ?  Who  would  pre- 
sent me  ?  There  he  is, — the  absolute  mas- 
ter, who  can  by  a  word  change  my  destiny, 
assure  my  fortune,  fulfill  my  desires.  He  is 
there  before  me  ;  were  I  to  stretch  out  my 
hand  I  could  touch  his  embroidered  coat — 
and  I  feel  myself  further  from  him  than  if  I 
were  still  buried  in  the  depths  of  my  native 
province  !  Oh  !  If  I  could  only  speak  to 
him  !  Only  approach  him  !  Who  will  come 
to  my  help  ?" 

While  the  chevalier  was  in  this  unhappy 
state  of  mind  he  saw  entering  with  an  air  of 
the  utmost  grace  and  delicacy  a  young  and 
attractive  woman,  clad  very  simply  in  a  white 
gown,  without  diamonds  or  embroideries  and 
with  a  single  rose  in  her  hair.  She  gave  her 
hand  to  a  lord  tout  afambre,  as  Voltaire  ex- 
presses it,  and  spoke  softly  to  him  behind 
her  fan.  Now  chance  willed  it  that,  in  chat- 
ting, laughing,  and  gesticulating,  this  fan 
should  slip  from  her  and  fall  beneath  a  chair, 
immediately  in  front  of  the  chevalier.  He 
at  once  hurried  to  pick  it  up,  and  as  in  doing 


I48  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

so  he  had  set  one  knee  on  the  floor,  the 
young  lady  appeared  to  him  so  charming 
that  he  presented  her  the  fan  without  rising. 
She  stopped,  smiled  and  passed  on,  thanking 
him  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  head,  but 
at  the  look  she  had  given  the  chevalier  he 
felt  his  heart  beat  without  knowing  why.  He 
was  right.  This  young  lady  was  la  petite 
<T  Etioles,  as  the  malcontents  still  called  her, 
while  others  in  speaking  of  her  said  "  la  Mar- 
quise "  in  that  reverent  tone  in  which  one 
says  "The  Queen." 


IV. 

"  She  will  protect  me  !  She  will  come  to 
my  rescue  !  Ah  !  how  truly  the  abbe  spoke 
when  he  said  that  one  look  might  decide  my 
life.  Yes,  those  eyes,  so  soft  and  gentle, 
that  little  mouth,  both  merry  and  sweet,*that 
little  foot  almost  hidden  under  the  pompon — 
Yes,  here  is  my  good  fairy  ! 

Thus  thought  the  chevalier,  almost  aloud, 
as  he  returned  to  the  inn.  Whence  came 
this  sudden  hope  ?  Did  his  youth  alone 
speak,  or  had  the  eyes  of  the  marquise  told  a 
tale? 

He  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  night 
writing  to  Mademoiselle  d'Annebault  such  a 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  149 

letter  as  we  heard  read  by  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour to  her  lord. 

To  reproduce  this  letter  would  be  a  vain 
task.  Excepting  idiots,  lovers  alone  find  no 
monotony  in  repeating  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  again. 

At  daybreak  the  chevalier  went  out  and 
began  roaming  about,  carrying  his  dreams 
through  the  streets.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  have  recourse  once  more  to  the  protecting 
abbe,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  to  tell  the 
reason  which  prevented  his  doing  so.  It 
was  like  a  blending  of  timidity  and  audacity, 
of  false  shame  and  romantic  honor.  And, 
indeed,  what  would  the  abbe  have  replied  to 
him,  if  he  had  told  his  story  of  the  night  be- 
fore ?  "  You  had  the  unique  -good  fortune 
to  pick  up  this  fan  ;  did  you  know  how  to 
profit  by  it  ?  What  did  the  marquise  say  to 
you  ? " 

"  Nothing." 

"You  should  have  spoken  to  her." 
"  I  was  confused  ;  I  had  lost  my  head." 
"  That  was  wrong  ;  one  must  know  how 
to  seize  an  opportunity  ;  but  this  can   be  re- 
paired.    Would  you  like  me  to  present  you 
to  Monsieur  So-and-so,  one  of  my  friends  ; 
or  perhaps  to    Madame  Such-a-one  ?     That 
would  be  still  better.     We  will  try  and  secure 


15°  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

tor  you  access  to  this  marquise  who  fright- 
ened you  so,  and  then," — and  so  forth. 

Now  the  chevalier  little  relished  anything 
of  this  kind.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  in  tell- 
ing his  adventure,  he  would,  so  to  speak, 
soil  and  mar  it.  He  said  to  himself  that 
chance  had  done  for  him  something  unheard 
of,  incredible,  and  that  it  should  remain  a 
secret  between  himself  and  Fortune.  To 
confide  this  secret  to  the  first  comer  was,  to 
his  thinking,  to  rob  it  of  its  value,  and  to 
show  himself  unworthy  of  it.  "  I  went  alone 
yesterday  to  the  castle  at  Versailles,"  thought 
he,  "  I  can  surely  go  alone  to  Trianon  ?  " 
This  was,  at  the  time,  the  abode  of  the 
favorite. 

Such  a  way  of  thinking  might,  and  even 
should,  appear  extravagant  to  calculating 
minds,  who  neglect  no  detail,  and  leave  as 
little  as  possible  to  chance  ;  but  colder  mor- 
tals, if  they  were  ever  young,  and  not  every- 
body is  so,  even  in  youth,  have  known  that 
strange  sentiment,  both  weak  and  bold,  dan- 
gerous and  seductive,  which  drags  us  to  our 
fate.  One  feels  one's  self  blind,  and  wishes 
to  be  so ;  one  does  not  know  where  one  is 
going  and  yet  walks  on.  The  charm  of  the 
thing  consists  in  this  recklessness  and  this 
very  ignorance  ;  it  is  the  pleasure  of  the 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  151 

artist  in  his  dreams,  of  the  lover  spending 
the  night  beneath  the  windows  of  his  mis- 
tress ;  it  is  the  instinct  of  the  soldier  ;  it  is, 
above  all,  that  of  the  gamester. 

The  chevalier,  almost  without  knowing  it, 
had  thus  taken  his  way  to  Trianon.  -  With- 
out being  very  pare,  as  they  said  in  those 
days,  he  lacked  neither  elegance  nor  that  in- 
describable air  which  forbids  a  chance  lackey, 
meeting  one,  from  daring  to  ask  where  one 
is  going.  It  was,  therefore,  not  difficult  for 
him,  thanks  to  information  he  had  obtained 
at  the  inn,  to  reach  the  gate  of  the  chateau, 
— if  one  can  so  call  that  marble  bonbonniere, 
which  has  seen  so  many  pleasures  and  pains 
in  by-gone  days.  Unfortunately,  the  gate 
was  closed,  and  a  stout  Swiss  wearing  a  plain 
coat  was  walking  about,  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  in  the  inner  avenue,  like  a  person 
who  is  not  expecting  any  one. 

"  The  King  is  here  !  "  said  the  chevalier  to 
himself,  "  or  else  the  marquise  is  away.  Evi- 
dently, when  the  doors  are  closed,  and  valets 
stroll  about,  the  masters  are  either  shut  in  or 
gone  out." 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  Full  as  he  had 
been,  a  moment  earlier,  of  courage  and  con- 
fidence, he  now  felt,  all  at  once,  confused 
and  disappointed.  The  mere  thought, 


152  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

"  The  King  is  here  !  "  alone  gave  him  more 
alarm  than  those  few  words,  on  the  night 
before  :  "  The  King  is  about  to  pass  !  " 
For  then  he  was  but  facing  the  unknown, 
and  now  he  knew  that  icy  stare,  that  implac- 
able, impassible  majesty. 

"  Ah  !  Bon  Dieu  !  What  a  figure  I 
should  cut  if  I  were  to  be  so  mad  as  to  try 
and  penetrate  this  garden,  and  find  myself 
face  to  face  with  this  superb  monarch,  sip- 
ping his  coffee  beside  a  rivulet." 

At  once  the  sinister  shadow  of  the  Bas- 
tille seemed  to  fall  before  the  poor  lover  ; 
instead  of  the  charming  image  that  he  had 
retained  of  the  marquise  and  her  smile,  he 
saw  dungeons,  cells,  black  bread,  questiona- 
ble water ;  he  knew  the  story  of  Latude, 
thirty  years  an  inmate  of  the  Bastille.  Lit- 
tle by  little  his  hope  seemed  to  be  taking  to 
itself  wings. 

"  And  yet,"  he  again  said  to  himself,  "  I 
am  doing  no  harm,  nor  the  King  either.  I 
protest  against  an  injustice  ;  but  I  never 
wrote  or  sang  scurrilous  songs.  I  was  so  well 
received  at  Versailles  yesterday,  and  the 
lackeys  were  so  polite  !  What  am  I  afraid  of  ? 
Of  committing  a  blunder  ?  I  shall  make 
many  more  which  will  repair  this  one." 

He  approached  the  gate   and  touched   it 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  153 

with  his  finger.  It  was  not  quite  closed.  He 
opened  it,  and  resolutely  entered. 

The  gate-keeper  turned  round  with  a  look 
of  annoyance. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ?  Where  are 
you  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  Madame  de  Pompadour." 

"  Have  you  an  audience  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  is  your  letter  ?  " 

He  was  no  longer  the  "  marquis  "  of  the 
night  before,  and,  this  time,  there  was  no 
Due  d'Aumont.  The  chevalier  lowered  his 
eyes  sadly,  and  noticed  that  his  white  stock- 
ings and  Rhinestone  buckles  were  covered 
with  dust.  He  had  made  the  mistake  of 
coming  on  foot,  in  a  region  where  no  one 
walked.  The  gate-keeper  also  bent  his  eyes, 
and  scanned  him,  not  from  head  to  foot,  but 
from  foot  to  head.  The  dress  seemed  neat 
enough,  but  the  hat  was  rather  askew,  and 
the  hair  lacked  powder. 

"  You  have  no  letter.    What  do  you  wish  ? " 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour." 

"  Really  !  And  you  think  this  is  the  way 
it  is  done?" 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Is  the  King 
here  ?" 


154  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

''  Perhaps.  Go  about  your  business  and 
leave  me  alone." 

The  chevalier  did  not  wish  to  lose  his  tem- 
per, but,  in  spite  of  himself,  this  insolence 
made  him  turn  pale. 

"  I  sometimes  have  told  a  lackey  to  go 
away,"  he  replied,  "  but  a  lackey  never  said  so 
to  me." 

"  Lackey  !  I  a  lackey  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
enraged  gatekeeper. 

"  Lackey,  doorkeeper,  valet,  or  menial,  I 
care  not,  and  it  matters  little." 

The  gatekeeper  made  a  step  toward  the 
chevalier  with  clenched  fists  and  face  aflame. 
The  chevalier,  brought  to  himself  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  threat,  lifted  the  handle  of  his 
sword  slightly. 

"  Take  care,  fellow,"  said  he,  "  I  am  a 
gentleman,  and  it  would  cost  me  but  thirty-six 
livres  to  put  a  boor  like  you  under  ground." 

"  If  you  are  a  nobleman,  monsieur,  I  belong 
to  the  King  ;  I  am  only  doing  my  duty  ;  so 
do  not  think — 

At  this  moment  the  flourish  of  a  hunting- 
horn  sounding  from  the  Bois  de  Satory  was. 
heard  afar,  and  lost  itself  in  the  echo.  Thfe 
chevalier  allowed  his  sword  to  drop  into  its 
scabbard,  no  longer  thinking  of  the  inter 
rupted  quarrel. 


THE   BKAUTY-SrOT.  1 55 

"  I  declare,"  said  he,  "  it  is  the  King  start- 
ing for  the  hunt  !  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
that  before  ? " 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,  nor  with 
you  either." 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  good  man.  The  King 
is  not  here  ;  I  have  no  letter,  I  have  no 
audience.  Here  is  some  money  for  you  ;  let 
me  in." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  several  pieces  of 
gold.  The  gatekeeper  scanned  h'im  anew 
with  a  superb  contempt. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  he,  disdainfully.  "  Is 
it  thus  you  seek  to  penetrate  into  a  royal 
dwelling  ?  Instead  of  making  you  go  out, 
take  care  I  don't  lock  you  in." 

"  You, — you  valet !  "  said  the  chevalier, 
getting  angry  again  and  once  more  seizing 
his  sword. 

"Yes,  I,"  repeated  the  big  man.  But  dur- 
ing this  conversation,  in  which  the  historian 
regrets  to  have  compromised  his  hero,  thick 
clouds  had  darkened  the  sky  ;  a  storm  was 
brewing.  A  flash  of  lightning  burst  forth, 
followed  by  a  violent  peal  of  thunder,  and 
the  rain  began  to  fall  heavily.  The  cheva- 
lier, who  still  held  his  gold,  saw  a  drop  of 
water  on  his  dusty  shoe  as  large  as  a  crown 
piece. 


156  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

"  Peste  !  "  said  he,  "  let  us  find  shelter.  It 
would  never  do  to  get  wet." 

He  turned  nimbly  towards  the  den  of  Cer- 
berus, or,  if  you  please,  the  gatekeeper's 
lodge.  Once  in  there,  he  threw  himself  un- 
ceremoniously into  the  big  arm-chair  of  the 
gatekeeper  himself. 

"  Heavens  !  How  you  annoy  me  !  "  said 
he,  "and  how  unfortunate  I  am  !  You  take 
me  for  a  conspirator,  and  you  do  not  under- 
stand that  I  have  in  my  pocket  a  petition  for 
his  Majesty  !  If  I  am  from  the  country,  you 
are  nothing  but  a  dolt." 

The  gatekeeper,  for  answer,  went  to  a 
corner  to  fetch  his  halberd,  and  remained 
standing  thus  with  the  weapon  in  his  fist. 

"  When  are  you  going  away  ? "  he  cried  out 
in  a  stentorian  voice. 

The  quarrel,  in  turn  forgotten  and  taken 
up  again,  seemed  this  time  to  be  becoming 
quite  serious,  and  already  the  gatekeeper's 
two  big  hands  trembled  strangely  on  his 
pike  ; — what  was  to  happen  ?  I  do  not  know. 
But,  suddenly  turning  his  head, — "  Ah  !  "  said 
the  chevalier,  "  who  comes  here  ? " 

A  young  page  mounted  on  a  splendid  horse 
(not  an  English  one ; — at  that  time  thin  legs 
were  not  the  fashion),  came  up  at  full  speed. 
The  road  was  soaked  with  rain  ;  the  gate  was 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  15? 

but  half  open.  There  was  a  pause  ;  the 
keeper  advanced  and  opened  the  gate.  The 
page  spurred  his  horse,  which  had  stopped 
for  the  space  of  an  instant ;  it  tried  to  resume 
its  gait,  but  missed  its  footing,  and,  slipping 
on  the  damp  ground,  fell. 

It  is  very  awkward,  almost  dangerous,  to 
raise  a  fallen  horse.  A  riding-whip  is  of  no 
use.  The  kicking  of  the  beast,  which  is 
doing  its  best,  is  extremely  disagreeable, 
especially  when  one's  own  leg  is  caught  under 
the  saddle. 

The  chevalier,  however,  came  to  the  rescue 
without  thinking  of  these  inconveniences,  and 
set  about  it  so  cleverly  that  the  horse  was 
soon  raised  and  the  rider  freed.  But  the 
latter  was  covered  with  mud  and  could 
scarcely  limp  along. 

Carried  as  well  as  might  be  to  the  gatekeep- 
er's lodge  and  seated  in  his  turn  in  the  big  arm- 
chair, "  Sir,"  said  he  to  the  chevalier,  "  you 
are  certainly  a  nobleman.  You  have  rendered 
me  a  great  service,  but  you  can  render  me  a 
still  greater  one.  Here  is  a  message  from 
the  King  for  Madame  la  Marquise,  and  this 
message  is  very  urgent,  as  you  see,  since  my 
horse  and  I,  in  order  to  go  faster,  almost 
broke  our  necks.  You  understand  that, 
wounded  as  I  am,  with  a  lame  leg,  I  could 


IS8  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

not  deliver  this  paper.  I  should  have,  in 
order  to  do  so,  to  be  carried  myself.  Will 
you  go  there  in  my  stead  ? " 

At  the  same  time  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  large  envelope  ornamented  with  gilt  ara- 
besques and  fastened  with  the  royal  seal. 

"  Very  willingly,  sir,"  replied  the  chevalier, 
taking  the  envelope.  And,  nimble  and  light 
as  a  feather,  he  set  out  at  a  run  and  on  the 
tips  of  his  toes. 


V. 


When  the  chevalier  arrived  at  the  chateau 
he  found  another  doorkeeper  in  front  of  the 
peristyle: 

"  By  the  King's  order,"  said  the  young 
man,  who  this  time  no  longer  feared  halberds, 
and,  showing  his  letter,  he  passed  gaily  be- 
tween half  a  dozen  lackeys. 

A  tall  usher,  planted  in  the  middle  of  the 
vestibule,  seeing  the  order  and  the  royal  seal, 
gravely  inclined  himself,  like  a  poplar  bent  by 
the  wind, — then,  smiling,  he  touched  with  one 
of  his  bony  fingers  the  corner  of  a  piece  of 
panelling. 

A  little  swinging  door,  masked  by  tapestry, 
at  once  opened  as  if  of  its  own  accord.  The 
bony  man  made  an  obsequious  sign,  the 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  159 

chevalier  entered,  and  the  tapestry,  which 
had  been  drawn  apart,  fell  softly  behind  him. 

A  silent  valet  introduced  him  into  a  draw- 
ing-room, then  into  a  corridor,  in  which  there 
were  two  or  three  closed  doors,  then  at  last, 
into  a  second  drawing-room,  and  begged  him 
to  wait  a  moment. 

"  Am  I  here  again  in  the  chateau  of  Ver- 
sailles ? "  the  chevalier  asked  himself.  "  Are 
we  going  to  begin  another  game  of  hide-and- 
seek  ?  " 

Trianon  was,  at  that  time,  neither  what 
it  is  now  nor  what  it  had  been.  It  has  been 
said  that  Madame  de  Maintenon  had  made  of 
Versailles  an  oratory,  and  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour a  boudoir.  It  has  also  been  said  of 
Trianon  that  ce petit chateau  de  porcelaine  was 
the  boudoir  of  Madame  de  Montespan.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  concerning  these  boudoirs,  it 
appears  that  Louis  XV.  put  them  every- 
where. This  or  that  gallery,  which  his  ances- 
tor walked  majestically,  was  then  divided 
oddly  into  an  infinity  of  apartments.  There 
were  some  of  every  color,  and  the  King  went 
fluttering  about  in  all  these  gardens  of  silk 
and  velvet. 

"  Do  you  think  my  little  furnished  apart- 
ments are  in  good  taste  ?  "  he  one  day  asked 
the  beautiful  Comtesse  de  Serrant, 


160  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  I  would  have  them  in 
blue." 

As  blue  was  the  King's  color,  this  answer 
flattered  him. 

At  their  next  meeting,  Madame  de  Senant 
found  the  salon  upholstered  in  blue,  as  she 
had  wished  it. 

That  in  which  the  chevalier  now  found  him- 
self alone  was  neither  blue  nor  pink,  it  was 
all  mirrors.  We  know  how  much  a  pretty 
woman  with  a  lovely  figure  gains  by  let- 
ting her  image  repeat  itself  in  a  thousand  as- 
pects. She  bewilders,  she  envelops,  so  to 
speak,  him  whom  she  desires  to  please.  To 
whatever  side  he  turns,  he  sees  her.  How 
can  he  avoid  being  charmed?  He  must  either 
take  to  flight  or  own  himself  conquered. 

The  chevalier  looked  at  the  garden,  too. 
There,  behind,  the  bushes  and  labyrinths, 
the  statues  and  the  marble  vases,  that  pas- 
toral style  which  the  marquise  was  about 
to  introduce,  and  which,  later  on,  Madame 
Dubarry  and  Marie  Antoinette  were  to  push 
to  such  a  high  degree  of  perfection,  was 
beginning  to  show  itself.  Already  there  ap- 
peared the  rural  fantasies  where  the  blasJcon- 
ceits  were  disappearing.  Already  the  purring 
tritons,  the  grave  goddesses  and  the  learned 
nymphs,  the  busts  with  flowing  wigs,  frozen 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  l6l 

with  horror  in  their  wealth  of  verdure,  beheld 
an  English  garden  rise  from  the  ground, 
amid  the  wondering  trees.  Little  lawns,  little 
streams,  little  bridges,  were  soon  to  dethrone 
Olympus  to  replace  it  by  a  dairy, — strange 
parody  of  nature,  which  the  English  copy 
without  understanding, — very  child's  play, 
for  the  nonce  the  pastime  of  an  indolent  mas- 
ter who  tried  in  vain  to  escape  the  ennui  of 
Versailles  while  remaining  at  Versailles  itself. 

But  the  chevalier  was  too  charmed,  too  en- 
raptured at  finding  himself  there  for  a  critical 
thought  to  present  itself  to  his  mind.  He 
was,  on  the  contrary,  ready  to  admire  every- 
thing, and  was  indeed  admiring,  twirling  his 
missive  between  his  fingers  as  a  rustic  does 
his  hat,  when  a  pretty  waiting-maid  opened 
the  door,  and  said  to  him  softly: 

"  Come,  monsieur." 

He  followed  her,  and  after  having  once 
more  passed  through  several  corridors  which 
were  more  or  less  mysterious,  she  ushered 
him  into  a  large  apartment  where  the  shutters 
were  half-closed.  Here,  she  stopped  and 
seemed  to  listen. 

"  Still  at  hide-and-seek  !  "  said  the  chev- 
alier to  himself.  However,  at  the  end  of  a 
few  moments,  yet  another  door  opened,  and 
another  waiting-maid,  who  seemed  to  be  even 


162  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

prettier  than  the  first,  repeated  to  him  in  the 
same  tone  the  same  words  : 

"  Come,  monsieur." 

If  he  had  been  the  victim  of  one  kind  of 
emotion  at  Versailles,  he  was  subject  to  an- 
other, and  still  deeper  feeling  now,  for  lie 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  temple  in  which 
the  divinity  dwelt.  He  advanced  with  a  pal- 
pitating heart.  A  soft  light,  slightly  veiled  by 
thin,  gauze  curtains,  succeeded  obscurity  ;  a 
delicious  perfume,  almost  imperceptible,  per- 
vaded the  air  around  him  ;  the  waiting-maid 
timidly  drew  back  the  corner  of  a  silk  por- 
tiere, and,  at  the  end,  of  a  large  chamber 
furnished  with  elegant  simplicity,  he  beheld 
the  lady  of  the  fan, — the  all-powerful  mar- 
quise. 

She  was  alone,  seated  before  a  table, 
wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown,  her  head  resting 
on  her  hand,  and,  seemingly,  deeply  preoccu- 
pied. On  seeing  the  chevalier  enter,  she  rose 
with  a  sudden  and  apparently  involuntary 
movement. 

"  You  come  on  behalf  of  the  King  ?  " 

The  chevalier  might  have  answered,  but  he 
could  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  bow 
profoundly  while  presenting  to  the  marquise 
the  letter  which  he  brought  her.  She  took 
it,  or  rather  seized  upon  it,  with 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  163 

eagerness.     Her  hands  trembled  on  the  en- 
velope as  she  broke  the  seal. 

This  letter,  written  by  the  King's  hand,  was 
rather  long.  She  devoured  it  at  first,  so  to 
speak,  with  a  glance,  then  she  read  it  greedily, 
with  profound  attention,  with  wrinkled  brow 
and  tightened  lips.  She  was  not  beautiful 
thus,  and  no  longer  resembled  the  magic 
apparition  of  the  petit  foyer.  When  she 
reached  the  end,  she  seemed  to  reflect.  Lit- 
tle by  little  her  face,  which  had  turned  pale, 
assumed  a  faint  color  (at  this  hour  she  did 
not  wear  rouge),  and  not  only  did  she  regain 
that  graceful  air  which  habitually  belonged 
to  her,  but  a  gleam  of  real  beauty  illumined 
her  delicate  features  ;  one  might  have 
taken  her  cheeks  for  two  rose-leaves.  She 
heaved  a  little  sigh,  allowed  the  letter  to 
fall  upon  the  table,  and,  turning  towards 
the  chevalier,  said,  with  the  most  charming 
smile: 

"  I  kept  you  waiting,  monsieur,  but  I  was- 
not  yet  dressed,  and,  indeed,  am  hardly  so 
even  now.  That  is  why  I  was  forced  to  get 
you  to  come  through  the  private  rooms,  for 
I  am  almost  as  much  besieged  here  as  though 
I  were  at  home.  I  would  like  to  answer  the 
King's  note.  Would  it  be  too  much  trouble 
to  you  to  do  an  errand  for  me  ? " 


1 64  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

This  time  he  must  speak  ;  the  chevalier 
had  had  time  to  regain  a  little  courage  : 

"  Alas  !  madame,"  said  he,  sadly,  "  you 
confer  a  great  favor  on  me,  but,  unfortu- 
nately, I  can  not  profit  by  it." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  the  honor  to  belong  to  his 
Majesty." 

"  How,  then,  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

•'  By  chance  ;  I  met  on  my  way  a  page  who 
had  been  thrown  and  who  begged  me — 

"  How  '  thrown  '  ?  "  repeated  the  marquise, 
bursting  out  laughing.  She  seemed  so  hap- 
py at  this  moment,  that  gaiety  came  to  her 
without  an  effort. 

"  Yes,  madame,  he  fell  from  his  horse  at 
the  gate.  I  luckily  found  myself  there  to 
help  him  to  rise,  and,  as  his  dress  was  very 
much  disordered,  he  begged  me  to  take 
charge  of  his  message." 

"  And  by  what  chance  did  you  find  your- 
self there  ?  " 

"  Madame,  it  was  because  I  had  a  petition 
to  present  to  his  Majesty." 

"His  Majesty  lives  at  Versailles." 

"  Yes,  but  you  live  here." 

"  Oh  !  So  it  is  you  who  wished  to  entrust 
me  with  a  message." 

"  Madame,  I  beg  you  to  believe — " 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  165 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself,  you  are  not  the 
first.  Bnt  why  do  you  address  yourself  to 
me  ?  I  am  but  a  woman — like  any  other." 

As  she  uttered  these  words  with  a  some- 
what ironical  air,  the  marquise  threw  a  trium- 
phant look  upon  the  letter  she  had  just 
read. 

"  Madame,"  continued  the  chevalier,  "  I 
have  always  heard  that  men  exercise  power, 
and  that  women — " 

"  Guide  it,  eh  ?  Well,  monsieur,  there  is 
a  queen  of  France.  " 

"  I  know  it,  madame  ;  that  is  how  it  hap- 
pened that  I  found  myself  here  this  morning." 

The  marquise  was  more  than  accustomed 
to  such  compliments,  though  they  were  gen- 
erally made  in  a  whisper  ;  but,  in  the  present 
circumstances,  this  appeared  to  be  quite  sin- 
gularly gratifying  to  her. 

"  And  on  what  faith,"  said  she,  "  on  what 
assurance,  did  you  believe  yourself  able  to 
penetrate  as  far  as  this  ?  For  you  did  not 
count,  I  suppose,  upon  a  horse's  falling  on 
the  way." 

"  Madame,  I  believed — I  hoped — " 

"  What  did  you  hope  ?  " 

"  I  hoped  that  chance, — might  make — " 

"  Chance  again  !  Chance  is  apparently 
one  of  your  friends  ;  but  I  warn  you  that 


1 66  THE   BEAUT 'Y-SP07\ 

if  you  have  no  other,  it  is  a  sad  recommen- 
dation." 

Perhaps  offended  Chance  wished  to  avenge 
herself  for  this  irreverence,  for  the  cheva- 
lier, whom  these  few  questions  had  more  and 
more  troubled,  suddenly  perceived,  on  the 
corner  of  the  table,  the  identical  fan  that  he 
had  picked  up  the  night  before.  He  took  it, 
and,  as  on  the  night  before,  presented  it  to 
the  marquise,  bending  the  knee  before  her. 

"  Here,  madame,"  he  said  to  her,  "  is  the 
only  friend  that  could  plead  for  me — " 

The  marquise  seemed  at  first  astonished, 
and  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  now  at  the 
fan,  now  at  the  chevalier. 

"Ah  !  you  are  right,"  she  said  at  last,  "it 
is  you,  monsieur  !  I  recognize  you.  It  is 
you  whom  I  saw  yesterday,  after  the  play, 
as  I  went  by  with  M.  de  Richelieu.  I  let  my 
fan  drop,  and  you  '  found  yourself  there,'  as 
you  were  saying." 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  And  very  gallantly,  as  a  true  chevalier, 
you  returned  it  to  me.  I  did  not  thank  you, 
but  I  was  sure,  all  the  same,  that  he  who 
knows  how  to  pick  up  a  fan  with  such  grace 
would  also  know,  at  the  right  time,  how  to 
pick  up  the  glove.  And  we  are  not  ill-pleased 
at  that,  we  women." 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  167 

"  And  it  is  but  too  true,  madame  ;  for,  on 
reaching  here  just  now,  I  almost  had  a  duel 
with  the  gatekeeper." 

"  Mercy  on  us  !  "  said  the  marquise,  once 
more  seized  with  a  fit  of  gaiety.  "  With  the 
gatekeeper  !  And  what  about  ?  " 

"  He  would  not  let  me  come  in." 

''  That  would  have  been  a  pity  !  But  who 
are  you,  monsieur  ?  And  what  is  your  re- 
quest?" , 

"  Madame,  I  am  called  the  Chevalier  de 
Vauvert.  M.  de  Biron  had  asked  in  my  be- 
half for  a  cornetcy  in  the  Guards." 

"  Oh  !  I  remember  now.  You  come  from 
Neauflette  ;  you  are  in  love  with  Mademoiselle 
d'Annebault — 

"  Madame,  who  could  have  told  you  ? " 

"  Oh  !  I  warn  you  that  I  am  much  to  be 
feared.  When  memory  fails  me,  I  guess. 
You  are  a  relative  of  the  Abbe  de  Chauvelin, 
and  were  refused  on  that  account ;  is  not  that 
so  ?  Where  is  your  petition  ? " 

"  Here  it  is,  madame  ;  but  indeed  I  cannot 
understand — " 

"Why  need  you  understand?  Rise  and 
lay  your  paper  on  the  table.  I  am  going  to 
answer  the  King's  letter ;  you  will  take 
him,  at  the  same  time,  your  request  and  my 
letter." 


1 68  THE   BEAUTY-SPOT. 

"  But,  madame,  I  thought  I  had  mentioned 
to  you — 

"  You  will  go.  You  entered  here  on  the 
business  of  the  King,  is  not  that  true  ?  Well, 
then,  you  will  enter  there  on  the  business  of 
the  Marquise  de  Pompadour,  lady  of  the 
palace  to  the  Queen." 

The  chevalier  bowed  without  a  word,  seized 
with  a  sort  of  stupefaction.  The  world  had 
long  known  how  much  talk,  how  many  ruses 
and  intrigues,  the  favorite  had  brought  to  bear, 
and  what  obstinacy  she  had  shown  to  obtain 
this  title,  which  in  reality  brought  her  nothing 
but  a  cruel  affront  from  the  Dauphin.  She 
had  longed  for  it  for  ten  years  ;  she  willed 
it,  and  she  had  succeeded.  So  M.  de  Vau- 
vert,  whom  she  did  not  know,  although  she 
knew  of  his  love,  pleased  her  as  a  bearer  of 
happy  news. 

Immovable,  standing  behind  her,  the  chev- 
alier watched  the  marquise  as  she  wrote,  first, 
with  all  her  heart, — with  passion, — then  with 
reflection,  stopping,  passing  her  hand  under 
her  little  nose,  delicate  as  amber.  She  grew 
impatient :  the  presence  of  a  witness  dis- 
turbed her.  At  last  she  made  up  her  mind 
and  drew  her  pen  through  something ;  it 
must  be  owned  that  after  all  it  was  but  a 
rough  draft. 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  169 

Opposite  the  chevalier,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  there  glittered  a  fine  Venetian 
mirror.  This  timid  messenger  hardly  dared 
raise  his  eyes.  It  would,  however,  have  been 
difficult  not  to  see  in  this  mirror,  over 
the  head  of  the  marquise,  the  anxious 
and  charming  face  of  the  new  lady  of  the 
palace. 

"  How  pretty  she  is  !  "  thought  he  ;  "  it  is 
a  pity  that  I  am  in  love  with  somebody  else  ; 
but  Athenais  is  more  beautiful,  and  moreover 
it  would  be  on  my  part  such  a  horrible  dis- 
loyalty." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ? "  said  the 
marquise.  The  chevalier,  as  was  his  wont, 
had  thought  aloud  without  knowing  it.  "  What 
are  you  saying  ? " 

"  I,  madame  ?     I  am  waiting." 

"  There  ;  that  is  done,"  the  marquise  went 
on,  taking  another  sheet  of  paper  ;  but  at  the 
slight  movement  she  had  made  in  turning 
around  the  dressing-gown  had  slipped  on  her 
shoulder. 

Fashion  is  a  strange  thing.  Our  grand- 
mothers thought  nothing  of  going  to  court  in 
immense  robes  exposing  almost  the  entire 
bosom,  and  it  was  by  no  means  considered  in- 
decent ;  but  they  carefully  hid  the  back  of 
their  necks,  which  the  fine  ladies  of  to-day  ex- 


I?0  THE  BEAUl'Y-SPOT. 

pose  so  freely  in  the  balcony  of  the  opera. 
This  is  a  newly  invented  beauty. 

On  the  frail,  white,  dainty  shoulder  of  Mad- 
ame de  Pompadour  there  was  a  little  black 
mark  that  looked  like  a  fly  floating  in  milk. 
The  chevalier,  serious  as  a  giddy  boy  who  is 
trying  to  keep  his  countenance,  looked  at  the 
mark,  and  the  marquise,  holding  her  pen  in 
the  air,  looked  at  the  chevalier  in  the  mirror. 

In  that  mirror  a  rapid  glance  was  ex- 
changed, which  meant  to  say  on  the  one  side, 
"You  are  charming,"  and  on  the  other,  "I 
am  not  sorry  for  it." 

However,  the  marquise  readjusted  her 
dressing-gown. 

"  You  are  looking  at  my  beauty-spot  ? " 

"  I  am  not  looking,  madame  ;  I  see  and  I 
admire." 

"  Here  is  my  letter  ;  take  it  to  the  King 
with  your  petition." 

"  But,  madame — " 

"Well?" 

"  His  Majesty  is  hunting ;  I  have  just  heard 
the  horn  in  the  wood  of  Satory." 

"  That  is  true.  I  did  not  think  of  it.  Well, 
to-morrow.  The  day  after  ;  it  matters  little. 
No,  immediately.  Go.  You  will  give  that 
to  Lebel.  Good-bye,  monsieur.  Try  and  re- 
member the  beauty-spot  you  have  just  seen  ; 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  I? I 

the  King  alone  in  the  whole  kingdom  has 
seen  it ;  and  as  for  your  friend,  Chance,  tell 
her,  I  beg  of  you,  to  take  care  and  not 
chatter  to  herself  so  loud,  as  she  did  just 
now.  Farewell,  chevalier." 

She  touched  a  little  bell,  then,  lifting  a 
flood  of  laces  upon  her  sleeve,  held  out  to  the 
young  man  her  bare  arm.  He  once  more 
bent  low,  and  with  the  tips  of  his  lips  scarcely 
brushed  the  rosy  nails  of  the  marquise.  She 
saw  no  impoliteness  in  it, — far  from  it — but, 
perhaps,  a  little  too  much  modesty. 

At  once  the  little  waiting-maids  reappeared 
(the  big  ones  were  not  yet  up),  and,  standing 
behind  them,  like  a  steeple  in  the  middle  of  a 
flock  of  sheep,  the  bony  man,  still  smiling, 
was  pointing  the  way. 

VI. 

Alone,  ensconced  in  an  old  arm-chair  in 
the  back  of  his  little  room  at  the  sign  of 
"  the  Sun,"  the  chevalier  waited  the  next  day, 
then  the  next,  and  no  news  ! 

"  Singular  woman  !  Gentle  and  imperious, 
good  and  bad,  the  most  frivolous  of  women, 
and  the  most  obstinate  !  She  has  forgotten 
me.  What  misery  !  She  is  right ; — she  is 
all-powerful,  and  I  am  nothing." 


I72  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

He  had  risen,  and  was  walking  about  the 
room. 

"  Nothing  ! — no,  I  am  but  a  poor  devil. 
How  truly  my  father  spoke  !  The  marquise 
was  mocking  me  ;  that  is  all  ;  while  I  was 
looking  at  her,  it  was  only  the  reflection  in 
that  mirror,  and  in  my  eyes,  of  her  own 
charms, — which  are,  certainly,  incomparable, 
— that  made  her  look  so  pleased  !  Yes,  her 
eyes  are  small,  but  what  grace  !  And  Latour, 
before  Diderot,  has  taken  the  dust  from  a 
butterfly's  wing  to  paint  her  portrait.  She  is 
not  very  tall,  but  her  figure  is  perfectly  ex- 
quisite. Ah  !  Mademoiselle  d'Annebault  ! 
Ah  !  my  beloved  friend,  is  it  possible  that  I, 
too,  should  forget  ?  " 

.Two  or  three  sharp  raps  at  the  door  awoke 
him  from  his  grief. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

The  bony  man,  clad  all  in  black,  with  a 
splendid  pair  of  silk  stockings,  which  simu- 
lated calves  that  were  lacking,  entered,  and 
made  a  deep  bow. 

"  This  evening,  Monsieur  le  Chevalier, 
there  is  to  be  a  masked  ball  at  the  court,  and 
Madame  la  Marquise  sends  me  to  say  that 
you  are  invited." 

"  That  is  enough,  monsieur.  Many 
thanks." 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  173 

As  soon  as  the  bony  man  had  retired,  the 
chevalier  ran  to  the  bell ;  the  same  maid-ser- 
vant who,  three  days  before,  had  done  her 
best  to  be  of  service  to  him,  assisted  him  to 
put  on  the  same  spangled  coat,  striving  to 
acquit  herself  even  better  than  before. 

And  then,  the  young  man  took  his  way 
towards  the  palace,  invited  this  time,  and 
more  quiet  outwardly,  but  more  anxious  and 
less  bold  than  when  he  had  made  his  first  steps 
in  that,  to  him,  still  unknown  world. 

VII. 

Bewildered,  almost  as  much  as  on  the  for- 
mer occasion,  by  all  the  splendors  of  Ver- 
sailles, which  this  evening  was  not  empty,  the 
chevalier  walked  in  the  great  gallery,  looking 
on  every  side  and  doing  all  he  co.ild  to  learn 
why  he  was  there  ;  but  nobody  seemed  to 
think  of  accosting  him.  At  the  end  of  a'n 
hour  he  became  wearied  and  was  about  to 
leave,  when  two  masks,  exactly  alike,  seated 
on  a  bench,  stopped  him  on  his  way.  One  of 
them  took  aim  at  him  with  her  finger  as  if 
with  a  pistol ;  the  other  rose  and  went  to 
him  : 

"  It  appears,  monsieur,"  said  the  mask, 
carelessly  taking  his  arm,  "  that  you  are  on 
very  good  terms  with  our  marquise." 


174  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,  but  of  whom 
are  you  speaking  ?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough." 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"  Oh  !  but  indeed  you  do." 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  All  the  court  knows  it." 

"  I  do  not  belong  to  the  court." 

"  You  are  playing  the  child.  I  tell  you  it  is 
well  known  !  " 

"  That  may  be,  madame,  but  I  am  ignorant 
of  it." 

"  You  are  not  ignorant,  however,  of  the  fact 
that  the  day  before  yesterday  a  page  fell  from 
his  horse  at  the  gate  of  Trianon.  Were  you 
not  there  by  chance  ? " 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  Did  you  not  help  him  to  rise  ? " 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  And  did  not  you  enter  the  chateau  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"And  was  not  a  paper- given  to  you?" 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"And  did  you  not  take  it  to  the  King?" 

"  Assuredly." 

"  The  King  was  not  at  Trianon  ;  he  was 
hunting  ;  the  marquise  was  alone — Is  not 
that  so  ? " 

"  Yes,  madame." 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  175 

"  She  had  just  risen  ;  she  was  scarcely  clad, 
excepting,  as  it  is  rumored,  in  a  wide  dress- 
ing-gown." 

"  People  whom  one  cannot  prevent  from 
speaking  tell  all  that  runs  through  their 
heads." 

"  That  is  all  well  enough,  but  it  appears 
that  there  passed  between  your  eyes  and  hers 
a  look  which  did  not  offend  her." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  madame  ? " 

"  That  you  did  not  displease  her." 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,  and  I  should 
be  distressed  that  such  sweet  and  rare  good- 
will, which  I  did  not  expect,  and  which 
touched  me  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  should 
give  occasion  to  any  idle  speeches." 

"You  take  fire  too  quickly,  chevalier  ;  one 
would  think  that  you  were  challenging  the 
whole  court ;  you  would  never  succeed  in 
killing  so  many  people." 

"  But,  madame,  if  the  page  fell,  and  if  I 
carried   his  message — Allow  me  to  ask  you 
why  I  am  interrogated." 
-  The  mask  pressed  his  arm  and  said  to  him  : 

"  Listen,  monsieur." 

"  As  much  as  you  please,  madame." 

"  This  is  what  we  are  thinking  about  now  : 
The  King  no  longer  loves  the  marquise,  and 
nobody  believes  that  he  ever  loved  her.  She 


I?6  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

has  just  committed  an  imprudence  ;  she  has 
set  the  whole  parliament  against  her  with  her 
"  two  sous  "  tax,  and  to-day  she  dares  attack 
a  far  greater  power, — the  Society  of  Jesuits. 
She  will  fail,  but  she  has  weapons,  and,  before 
perishing,  she  will  defend  herself." 
"  Well,  madame,  what  can  I  do  ?  " 
"  I  will  tell  you.  M.  de  Choiseul  has  half 
quarrelled  with  M.  de  Bernis ;  neither  of 
them  is  sure  what  it  is  he  would  like  to 
attempt.  Bernis  is  going  away  ;  Choiseul 
will  take  his  place.  A  word  from  you  can 
decide  it." 

"  In  what  way,  madame,  pray  ?  " 
"  By  allowing  your  story  of  the  other  day 
to  be  told." 

"What  earthly  connection  can  there  be 
between  my  visit,  the  Jesuits,  and  the  par- 
liament ? " 

"Write  me  one  word  and  the  marquise  is 
lost.  And  do  not  doubt  that  the  warmest 
interest,  the  most  complete  gratitude — " 

"  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon  again,  madame, 
but  what  you  are  asking  of  me  there  would  be 
an  act  of  cowardice." 

"  Is  there  any  honor  in  politics  ? " 
"  I  know  nothing  of  all  that.     Madame  de 
Pompadour    let   her   fan   fall   before   me  ;    I 
picked  it  up  ;    I   gave  it  back  to  her  ;    she 


THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.  177 

thanked  me  ;  she  permitted  me  with  that 
peculiar  grace  of  hers  to  thank  her  in  my 
turn." 

"  A  truce  to  ceremonies  :  time  flies  ;  my 
name  is  the  Countess  d'Estrades  ;  you  love 
Mademoiselle  d'Annebault,  my  niece  ;  do  not 
say  no,  it  is  useless.  You  are  seeking  a  cor- 
netcy  ;  you  shall  have  it  to-morrow,  and  if 
you  care  for  Athenai's  you  will  soon  be  my 
nephew." 

"  Ah  !  madame,  what  excess  of  goodness  !  " 

"  But  you  must  speak." 

"  No,  madame." 

"  I  have  been  told  that  you  love  that  little 
girl." 

<•'  As  much  as  it  is  possible  to  love  ;  but  if 
ever  my  love  is  to  declare  itself  in  her  pres- 
ence my  honor  must  also  be  there." 

"You  are  very  obstinate,  chevalier!  Is 
that  your  final  reply  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  last,  as  it  was  the  first." 

"  You  refuse  to  enter  the  Guards  ?  You 
refuse  the  hand  of  my  niece  ?  " 

"Yes,  madame,  if  that  be  the  price." 

Madame  d'Estrades  cast  upon  the  chevalier 
a  piercing  look,  full  of  curiosity  ;  then  seeing 
in  his  face  no  sign  of  hesitation  she  slowly 
walked  away,  losing  herself  in  the  crowd. 

The    chevalier,  unable  to  make    anything 


1 78  THE  BEAUTY-SPOT. 

of  this  singular  adventure,  went  and  sat  down 
in  a  corner  of  the  gallery. 

"What  does  that  woman  mean  to  do?" 
said  he  to  himself.  "  She  must  be  a  little 
mad.  She  wishes  to  upset  the  state  by  means 
of  a  silly  calumny,  and  she  proposes  to  me 
that  in  order  to  merit  the  hand  of  her  niece 
I  should  dishonor  myself.  But  Athenais 
would  no  longer  care  for  me,  or,  if  she  lent 
herself  to  such  an  intrigue,  I  would  no  longer 
care  for  her.  What !  Strive  to  harm  this 
good  marquise,  to  defame  her,  to  blacken 
her  character.  Never  !  no,  never  !  " 

Always  intent  upon  his  own  thoughts,  the 
chevalier  very  probably  would  have  risen  and 
spoken  aloud,  but  just  then  a  small  rosy  fin- 
ger touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  before  him  the 
pair  of  masks  who  had  stopped  him. 

"  You  do  not  wish  to  help  us  a  little 
then  ? "  said  one  of  the  masks,  disguising  her 
voice.  But  although  the  two  costumes  were 
exactly  alike,  and  all  seemed  calculated  to 
mislead,  the  chevalier  was  not  deceived. 
Neither  the  look  nor  the  tone  was  the  same. 

"Will  you  answer,  sir?" 

"  No,  madame." 

"  Will  you  write  ?  " 

"  Neither  will  I  write." 


THE   BEAUTY-SPOT.  179 

"  It  is  true  that  you  are  obstinate.  Good- 
night, lieutenant." 

"  What  do  you  say,  madame  ? " 

"  There  is  your  commission  and  your  mar- 
riage contract."  And  she  threw  the  fan  to  him. 

It  was  the  one  which  the  chevalier  had 
already  twice  picked  up.  The  little  cupids 
of  Boucher  sported  on  the  parchment  of  the 
gilded  mother-of-pearl  master-piece.  There 
was  no  longer  any  doubt,  it  was  the  fan  of 
Madame  de  Pompadour. 

"  Heavens  !     Marquise,  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Very  possible,"  said  she,  raising  the  little 
piece  of  black  veil  on  her  chin. 

"  I  know,  madame,  how  to  answer — " 

"  It  is  not  ne2e:;sary.  You  are  a  loyal  gen- 
tleman, and  we  shall  see  each  other  again, 
for  we  are  to  be  in  the  same  house.  The 
King  has  placed  you  in  the  '  cornette 
blanche.'  Remember,  that  for  a  petitioner 
there  is  no  greater  eloquence  than  to  know 
how  to  be  silent  if  need  be — " 

"  And  forgive  us,"  added  she,  laughing  as 
she  ran  away,  "  if  before  bestowing  upon  you 
our  niece's  hand,  we  thought  it  expedient  to 
find  out  your  true  worth."  * 

*  Madame  d'Estrades  not  long  after  was  disgraced, 
together  with  M.  d'Argensoii,  for  having  conspired, 
this  time  seriously,  against  Madame  de  Pompadour. 


CROISILLES 


181 


CROISILLES. 
I. 

AT  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Louis 
XV.,  a  young  man  named  Croisilles,  son  of  a 
goldsmith,  was  returning  from  Paris  to 
Havre,  his  native  town.  He  had  been  in- 
trusted by  his  father  with  the  transaction  of 
some  business,  and  his  trip  to  the  great  city 
having  turned  out  satisfactorily,  the,  joy  of 
bringing  good  news  caused  him  to  walk  the 
sixty  leagues  more  gaily  and  briskly  than  his 
wont ;  for,  though  he  had  a  rather  large  sum 
of  money  in  his  pocket,  he  travelled  on  foot  for 
pleasure.  He  was  a  good-tempered  fellow, 
and  not  without  wit,  but  so  very  thoughtless 
and  flighty  that  people  looked  upon  him  as 
being  rather  weak-minded.  His  doublet  but- 
toned awry,  his  periwig  flying  to  the  wind, 
his  hat  under  his  arm,  he  followed  the  banks 
of  the  Seine,  at  times  finding  enjoyment  in 
his  own  thoughts  and  again  indulging  in 
snatches  of  song  ;  up  at  daybreak,  supping  at 
wayside  inns,  and  always  charmed  with  this 
183 


1 84  CROIS1LLES. 

stroll  of  his  through  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful regions  of  France.  Plundering  the  apple- 
trees  of  Normandy  on  his  way,  he  puzzled 
his  brain  to  find  rhymes  (for  all  these  rattle- 
pates  are  more  or  less  poets),  and  tried  hard 
to  turn  out  a  madrigal  for  a  certain  fair  dam- 
sel of  his  native  place.  She  was  no  less  than 
a  daughter  of  a  fermier-gtne'ral,  Mademoi- 
selle Godeau,  the  pearl  of  Havre,  a  rich 
heiress,  and  much  courted.  Croisilles  was 
not  received  at  M.  Godeau's  otherwise  than 
in  a  casual  sort  of  way,  that  is  to  say,  he  had 
sometimes  himself  taken  there  articles  of 
jewelry  purchased  at  his  father's.  M.  Godeau, 
whose  somewhat  vulgar  surname  ill-fitted  his 
immense  fortune,  avenged  himself  by  his  ar- 
rogance for  the  stigma  of  his  birth,  and 
showed  himself  on  all  occasions  enormously 
and  pitilessly  rich.  He  certainly  was  not  the 
man  to  allow  the  son  of  a  goldsmith  to  enter 
his  drawing-room  ;  but,  as  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  had  the  most  beautiful  eyes  in  the 
world,  and  Croisilles  was  not  ill-favored  ;  and 
as  nothing  can  prevent  a  fine  fellow  from 
falling  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl,  Croisilles 
adored  Mademoiselle  Godeau,  who  did  not 
seemed  vexed  thereat.  Thus  was  he  think- 
ing of  her  as  he  turned  his  steps  toward 
Havre  ;  and,  as  he  had  never  reflected  seri- 


CROISILLES.  185 

ously  upon  anything,  instead  of  thinking  of 
the  invincible  obstacles  which  separated  him 
from  his  lady-love,  he  busied  himself  only 
with  finding  a  rhyme  for  the  Christian  name 
she  bore.  Mademoiselle  Godeau  was  called 
Julie,  and  N  the  rhyme  was  found  easily 
enough.  So  Croisilles,  having  reached  Hon- 
fleur,  embarked  with  a  satisfied  heart,  his 
money  and  his  madrigal  in  his  pocket,  and  as 
soon  as  he  jumped  ashore  ran  to  the  paternal 
house. 

He  found  the  shop  closed,  and  knocked 
again  and  again,  not  without  astonishment 
and  apprehension,  for  it  was  not  a  holiday  ; 
but  nobody  came.  He  called  his  father,  but 
in  vain.  He  went  to  a  neighbor's  to  ask 
what  had  happened  ;  instead  of  replying, 
the  neighbor  turned  away,  as  though  not 
wishing  to  recognize  him.  Croisilles  re- 
peated his  questions  ;  he  learned  that  his 
father,  his  affairs  having  long  been  in  an 
embarrassed  condition,  had  just  become 
bankrupt,  and  had  fled  to  America,  abandon- 
ing to  his  creditors  all  that  he  possessed. 

Not  realizing  as  yet  the  extent  of  his  mis- 
fortune, Croisilles  felt  overwhelmed  by  the 
thought  that  he  might  never  again  see  his 
father.  It  seemed  to  him  incredible  that  he 
should  be  thus  suddenly  abandoned  ;  he 


1 86  CROISILLES. 

tried  to  force  an  entrance  into  the  store  ;  but 
was  given  to  understand  that  the  official 
seals  had  been  affixed  ;  so  he  sat  down  on  a 
stone,  and  giving  way  to  his  grief,  began  to 
weep  piteously,  deaf  to  the  consolations  of 
those  around  him,  never  ceasing  to  call  his 
father's  name,  though  he  knew  him  to  be 
already  far  away.  At  last  he  rose,  ashamed 
at  seeing  a  crowd  about  him,  and,  in  the 
most  profound  despair,  turned  his  steps  to- 
wards the  harbor. 

On  reaching  the  pier,  he  walked  straight 
before  him  like  a  man  in  a  trance,  who 
knows  neither  where  he  is  going,  nor  what 
is  to  become  of  him.  He  saw  himself  irre- 
trievably lost,  possessing  no  longer  a  shelter, 
no  means  of  rescue  and,  of  course,  no  longer 
any  friends.  Alone,  wandering  on  the  sea- 
shore, he  felt  tempted  to  drown  himself,  then 
and  there.  Just  at  the  moment  when,  yield- 
ing to  this  thought,  he  was  advancing  to  the 
edge  of  a  high  cliff,  an  old  servant  named 
Jean,  who  had  served  his  family  for  a  number 
of  years,  arrived  on  the  scene. 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  Jean  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
."you  know  all  that  has  happened  since  I 
went  away.  Is  it  possible  that  my  father 
could  leave  us  without  warning,  without  fare- 
well ?  " 


CROISILLES.  187 

"  He  is  gone,"  answered  Jean,  "  but  indeed 
not  without  saying  good-bye  to  you." 

At  the  same  time  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  letter,  which  he  gave  to  his  young  master. 
Croisilles  recognized  the  handwriting  of  his 
father,  and,  before  opening  the  letter,  kissed 
it  rapturously  ;  but  it  contained  only  a  few 
words.  Instead  of  feeling  his  trouble 
softened,  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  still 
harder  to  bear.  Honorable  until  then,  and 
known  as  such,  the  old  gentleman,  ruined  by 
an  unforeseen  disaster  (the  bankruptcy  of  a 
partner),  had  left  for  his  son  nothing  but  a 
few  commonplace  words  of  consolation,  and 
no  hope,  except,  perhaps,  that  vague  hope, 
without  aim  or  reason,  which  constitutes,  it 
is  said,  the  last  possession  one  loses. 

"  Jean,  my  friend,  you  carried  me  in  your 
arms,"  said  Croisilles,  whence  had  read  the 
letter,  "  and  you  certainly  are  to-day  the 
only  being  who  loves  me  at  all  ;  it  is  a  very 
sweet  thing  to  me,  but  a  very  sad  one  for 
you  ;  for,  as  sure  as  my  father  embarked 
there,  I  will  throw  myself  into  the  same  sea 
which  is  bearing  him  away;  not  before  you 
npr  at  once,  but  some  day  I  will  do  it,  for  I 
am  lost." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  "  replied  Jean,  not 
seeming  to  have  understood,  but  holding  fast 


1 88  CROISILLES. 

to  the  skirt  of  Croisilles'  coat  ;  "  What  can 
you  do,  my  dear  master  ?  Your  father  was 
deceived  ;  he  was  expecting  money  which 
did  not  come,  and  it  was  no  small  amount 
either.  Could  he  stay  here  ?  I  have  seen 
him,  sir,  as  he  made  his  fortune,  during  the 
thirty  years  that  I  served  him  ;  I  have  seen 
him  working,  attending  to  his  business,  the 
crown-pieces  coming  in  one  by  one.  He  was 
an  honorable  man,  and  skilful  ;  they  took  a 
cruel  advantage  of  him.  Within  the  last 
few  days,  I  was  still  there,  and  as  fast  as  the 
crowns  came  in,  I  saw  them  go  out  of  the 
shop  again.  Your  father  paid  all  he  could, 
for  a  whole  day,  and,  when  his  desk  was 
empty,  he  could  not  help  telling  me,  point- 
ing to  a  drawer  where  but  six  francs  re- 
mained :  '  There  were  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  there  this  morning  !  '  That  does  not 
look  like  a  rascally  failure,  sir  ?  There  is 
nothing  in  it  that  can  dishonor  you." 

"  I  have  no  more  doubt  of  my  father's  in- 
tegrity," answered  Croisilles,  "  than  I  have  of 
his  misfortune.  Neither  do  I  doubt  his 
affection.  But  I  wish  I  could  have  kissed 
him,  for  what  is  to  become  of  me  ?  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  poverty,  I  have  not  the  neces- 
sary cleverness  to  build  up  my  fortune.  And, 
if  I  had  it,  my  father  is  gone.  It  took  him 


CROISILLES.  189 

thirty  years,  how  long  would  it  take  me  to 
repair  this  disaster?  Much  longer.  And 
will  he  be  living  then  ?  Certainly  not ;  he 
will  die  over  there,  and  I  cannot  even  go  and 
find  him  ;  I  can  join  him  only  by  dying." 

Utterly  distressed  as  Croisilles  was,  he  pos- 
sessed much  religious  feeling.  Although  his 
despondency  made  him  wish  for  death,  he 
hesitated  to  take  his  life.  At  the  first  words 
of  this  interview,  he  had  taken  hold  of  old 
Jean's  arm,  and  thus  both  returned  to  the 
town.  When  they  had  entered  the  streets 
and  the  sea  was  no  longer  so  near : 

"It  seems  to  me,  sir,"  said  Jean,  "that  a 
good  man  has  a  right  to  live  and  that  a  mis- 
fortune proves  nothing.  Since  your  father 
has  not  killed  himself,  thank  God,  how  can 
you  think  of  dying  ?  Since  there  is  no  dis- 
honor in  his  case,  and  all  the  town  knows  it 
is  so,  what  would  they  think  of  you  ?  That 
you  felt  unable  to  endure  poverty.  It  would 
be  neither  brave  nor  Christian  ;  for,  at  the 
very  worst,  what  is  there  to  frighten  you  ? 
There  are  plenty  of  people  born  poor,  and 
who  have  never  had  either  mother  or  father 
to  help  them  on.  I  know  that  we  are  not  all 
alike,  but,  after  all,  nothing  is  impossible  to 
God.  What  would  you  do  in  such  a  case  ? 
Your  father  was  not  born  rich,  far  from  it, — 


19°  CROISILLES. 

meaning  no  offence — and  that  is  perhaps 
what  consoles  him  now.  If  you  had  been 
here,  this  last  month,  it  would  have  given 
you  courage.  Yes,  sir,  a  man  may  be  ruined, 
nobody  is  secure  from  bankruptcy  ;  but  your 
father,  I  make  bold  to  say,  has  borne  himself, 
through  it  all,  like  a  man,  though  he  did  leave 
us  so  hastily.  But  what  could  he  do  ?  It  is 
not  every  day  that  a  vessel  starts  for  Amer- 
ica. I  accompanied  him  to  the  wharf,  and 
if  you  had  seen  how  sad  he  was  !  How  he 
charged  me  to  take  care  of  you  ;  to  send  him 
news  from  you  !  —  Sir,  it  is  a  right  poor 
idea  you  have,  that  throwing  the  helve  after 
the  hatchet.  Every  one  has  his  time  of  trial 
in  this  world,  and  I  was  a  soldier  before  I 
was  a  servant.  I  suffered  severely  at  the 
time,  but  I  was  young  ;  I  was  of  your  age, 
sir,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  Providence 
could  not  have  spoken  His  last  word  to  a 
young  man  of  twenty-five.  Why  do  you  wish 
to  prevent  the  kind  God  from  repairing  the 
evil  that  has  befallen  you  ?  Give  Him  time, 
and  all  will  come  right.  If  I  might  advise 
you,  I  would  say,  just  wait  two  or  three 
years,  and  I  will  answer  for  it,  you  will  come 
out  all  right.  It  is  always  easy  to  go  out  of 
this  world.  Why  will  you  seize  an  unlucky 
moment  ? " 


CROISILLES.  191 

While  Jean  was  thus  exerting  himself  to 
persuade  his  master,  the  latter  walked  in 
silence,  and,  as  those  who  suffer  often  do, 
was  looking  this  way  and  that  as  though 
seeking  for  something  which  might  bind  him 
to  life.  As  chance  would  have  it,  at  this 
juncture,  Mademoiselle  Godeau,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  fermier-ge'ne'ral,  happened  to  pass 
with  her  governess.  The  mansion  in  which 
she  lived  was  not  far  distant ;  Croisilles  saw 
her  enter  it.  This  meeting  produced  on  him 
more  effect  than  all  the  reasonings  in  the 
world.  I  have  said  that  he  was  rather 
erratic,  and  nearly  always  yielded  to  the  first 
impulse.  Without  hesitating  an  instant,  and 
without  explanation,  he  suddenly  left  the  arm 
of  his  old  servant,  and  crossing  the  street, 
knocked  at  Monsieur  Godeau's  door. 


II. 

WHEN  we  try  to  picture  to  ourselves,  nowa- 
days, what  was  called  a  "  financier  "  in  times 
gone  by,  we  invariably  imagine  enormous 
corpulence,  short  legs,  a  gigantic  wig,  and  a 
broad  face  with  a  triple  chin, — and  it  is  not 
without  reason  that  we  have  become  accus- 
tomed to  form  such  a  picture  of  such  a  per- 


I92  CROISILLES 

sonage.  Everyone  knows  to  what  great  abuses 
the  royal  tax-farming  led,  and  it  seems  as 
though  there  were  a  law  .of  nature  which  ren- 
ders fatter  than  the  rest  of  mankind  those 
who  fatten,  not  only  upon  their  own  laziness, 
but  also  upon  the  work  of  others. 

Monsieur  Godeau,  among  financiers,  was 
one  of  the  most  classical  to  be  found, — that 
is  to  say,  one  of  the  fattest.  At  the  present 
time  he  had  the  gout,  which  was  nearly  as 
fashionable  in  his  day  as  the  nervous  head- 
ache is  in  ours.  Stretched  upon  a  lounge, 
his  eyes  half-closed,  he  was  coddling  himself 
in  the  coziest  corner  of  a  dainty  boudoir.  The 
panel-mirrors  which  surrounded  him,  majes- 
tically duplicated  on  every  side  his  enormous 
person  ;  bags  filled  with  gold  covered  the 
table  ;  around  him,  the  furniture,  the  wains- 
cot, the  doors,  the  locks,  the  mantel-piece, 
the  ceiling  were  gilded  ;  so  was  his  coat.  I 
do  not  know  but  that  his  brain  was  gilded 
too.  He  was  calculating  the  issue  of  a  little 
business  affair  which  could  not  fail  to  bring 
him  a  few  thousand  louis  ;  and  was  even 
deigning  to  smile  over  it  to  himself  when 
Croisiiles  was  announced.  The  young  man 
entered  with  an  humble,  but  resolute  air,  and 
with  every  outward  manifestation  of  that  in- 
ward tumult  with  which  we  find  no  diffi- 


CR01SILLFS.  193 

in  crediting  a  man  who  is  longing  to 
drown  himself.  Monsieur  Godeau  was  a 
little  surprised  at  this  unexpected  visit ;  then 
he  thought  his  daughter  had  been  buying 
some  trifle,  and  was  confirmed  in  that  thought 
by  seeing  her  appear  almost  at  the  same  time 
with  the  young  man.  He  made  a  sign  to 
Croisilles  not  to  sit  down  but  to  speak.  The 
young  lady  seated  herself  on  a  sofa,  and 
Croisilles,  remaining  standing,  expresse'd  him- 
self in  these  terms  : 

"  Sir,  my  father  has  failed.  The  bank- 
ruptcy of  a  partner  has  forced  him  to  sus- 
pend his  payments,  and  unable  to  witness  his 
own  shame,  he  has  fled  to  America,  after  hav- 
ing paid  his  last  sou  to  his  creditors.  I  was 
absent  when  all  this  happened  ;  I  have  just 
come  back  and  have  known  of  these  events 
only  two  hours.  I  am  absolutely  without 
resources,  and  determined  to  die.  It  is  very 
probable  that,  on  leaving  your  house,  I  shall 
throw  myself  into  the  water.  In  all  probabil- 
ity, I  would  already  have  done  so,  if  I  had 
not  chanced  to  meet,  at  the  very  moment,  this 
young  lady,  your  daughter.  I  love  her,  sir, 
from  the  very  depths  of  my  heart ;  for  two 
years  I  have  been  in  love  with  her,  and  my 
silence,  until  now,  proves  better  than  any- 
thing else  the  respect  I  feel  for  her  ;  but  to- 


194  CROISILLES. 

day,  in  declaring  my  passion  to  you,  I  fulfill 
an  imperative  duty,  and  I  would  think  I  was 
offending  God,  if,  before  giving  myself  over 
to  death,  1  did  not  come  to  ask  you  Madem- 
oiselle Julie  in  marriage.  I  have  not  the 
slightest  hope  that  you  will  grant  this  request  ; 
but  I  have  to  make  it,  nevertheless,  for  1 
am  a  good  Christian,  sir,  and  when  a  good 
Christian  sees  himself  come  to  such  a 
point  of  misery  that  he  can  no  longer  suf- 
fer life,  he  must  at  least,  to  extenuate  his 
crime,  exhaust  all  the  chances  which  remain 
to  him  before  taking  the  final  and  fatal 
step." 

At  the  beginning  of  this  speech,  Monsieur 
Godeau  had  supposed  that  the  young  man 
came  to  borrow  money,  and  so  he  prudently 
threw  his  handkerchief  over  the  bags  that 
were  lying  around  him,  preparing  in  advance 
a  refusal,  and  a  polite  one,  for  he  always  felt 
some  good-will  toward  the  father  of  Croisilles. 
But  when  he  had  heard  the  young  man  to  the 
end,  and  understood  the  purport  of  his  visit 
he  never  doubted  one  moment  but  that  the 
poor  fellow  had  gone  completely  mad.  He 
was  at  first  tempted  to  ring  the  bell  and  have 
him  put  out;  but,  noticing  his  firm  demeanor, 
his  determined  look,  the  fernrier-gtntral 
took  pity  on  so  inoffensive  a  case  of  insanity. 


CROISILLES.  195 

He  merely  told  his  daughter  to  retire,  so  that 
she  might  be  no  longer  exposed  to  hearing 
such  improprieties. 

While  Croisilles  was  speaking,  Mademoi- 
selle Godeau  had  blushed  as  a  peach  in 
the  month  of  August.  At  her  father's  bid- 
ding, she  retired,  the  young  man  making  her 
a  profound  bow,  which  she  did  not  seem  to 
notice.  Left  alone  with  Croisilles,  Monsieur 
Godeau  coughed,  rose,  then  dropped  again 
upon  the  cushions,  and,  trying  to  assume  a 
paternal  air,  delivered  himself  to  the  follow- 
ing effect. 

"  My  boy,"  said  he,  "  I  am  willing  to  be- 
lieve that  you  are  not  poking  fun  at  me,  but 
you  have  really  lost  your  head.  I  not  only 
excuse  this  proceeding,  but  I  consent  not  to 
punish  you  for  it.  I  am  sorry  that  your  poor 
devil  of  a  father  has  become  bankrupt  and 
has  skipped.  It  is  indeed  very  sad,  and  I 
quite  understand  that  such  a  misfortune 
should  affect  your  brain.  Besides,  I  wish  to 
do  something  for  you  ;  so  take  this  stool  and 
sit  down  there." 

"  It  is  useless,  sir,"  answered  Croisilles  ; 
"  If  you  refuse  me,  as  I  see  you  do,  I  have 
nothing  left  but  to  take  my  leave.  I  wish 
you  every  good  fortune." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ?  " 


I96  CROISILLEb 

11  To  write  to  my  father  and  say  good-bye 
to  him." 

"  Eh  !  the  devil  !  Any  one  would  swear 
you  were  speaking  the  truth.  I'll  be  damned 
if  I  don't  think  you  are  going  to  drown  your- 
self." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  at  least  I  think  so,  if  my  cour- 
age does  not  forsake  me." 

"  That's  a  bright  idea  !  Fie  on  you  ! 
How  can  you  be  such  a  fool  ?  Sit  down,  sir, 
I  tell  you,  and  listen  to  me." 

Monsieur  Godeau  had  just  made  a  very 
wise  reflection,  which  was  that  it  is  never 
agreeable  to  have  it  said  that  a  man,  who- 
ever he  may  be,  threw  himself  into  the  water 
on  leaving  your  house.  He  therefore 
coughed  once  more,  took  his  snuff-box,  cast 
a  careless  glance  upon  his  shirt-frill,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"  It  is  evident  that  you  are  nothing  but  a 
simpleton,  a  fool,  a  regular  baby.  You  do 
not  know  what  you  are  saying.  You  are 
ruined,  that's  what  has  happened  to  you. 
But,  my  dear  friend,  all  that  is  not  enough  ; 
one  must  reflect  upon  the  things  of  this 
world.  If  you  came  to  ask  me — well,  good 
advice,  for  instance, — I  might  give  it  to 
you  ;  but  what  is  it  you  are  after  ?  You  are 
in  love  with  my  daughter  ?  " 


CK01SILLES.  197 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  I  repeat  to  you,  that  I  am  far 
from  supposing  that  you  can  give  her  to  me 
in  marriage  ;  but  as  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  but  that,  which  could  prevent  me  from 
dying,  if  you  believe  in  God,  as  I  do  not 
doubt  you  do,  you  will  understand  the  rea- 
son that  brings  me  here." 

"  Whether  I  believe  in  God  or  not,  is  no 
business  of  yours.  I  do  not  intend  to  be 
questioned.  Answer  me  first  :  where  have 
you  seen  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  In  my  father's  shop,  and  in  this  house, 
when  I  brought  jewelry  for  Mademoiselle 
Julie." 

"  Who  told  you  her  name  was  Julie  ?  What 
are  we  coming  to,  great  heavens  !  But  be 
her  name  Julie  or  Javotte,  do  you  know  what 
is  wanted  in  any  one  who  aspires  to  the  hand 
of  the  daughter  of  3.fermier-ge'neral?" 

"  No,  I  am  completely  ignorant  of  it,  unless 
it  is  to  be  as  rich  as  she." 

"  Something  more  is  necessary,  my  boy  ; 
you  must  have  a  name." 

"  Well  !  my  name  is  Croisilles." 

"  Your  name  is  Croisilles,  poor  wretch  !  Do 
you  call  that  a  name  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  soul  and  conscience,  sir, 
it  seems  to  me  to  be  as  good  a  name  as 
Godeau." 


I98  CK  01  SI  LIES. 

"  You  are  very  impertinent,  sir,  and  you 
shall  rue  it." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  do  not  be  angry  ;  I  had  not 
the  least  idea  of  offending  you.  If  you  see  in 
what  I  said  anything  to  wound  you,  and  wish 
to  punish  me  for  it,  there  is  no  need  to  get 
angry.  Have  I  not  told  you  that  on  leaving 
here  I  am  going  straight  to  drown  myself  ? " 

Although  M.  Godeau  had  promised  himself 
to  send  Croisilles  away  as  gently  as  possible, 
in  order  to  avoid  all  scandal,  his  prudence 
could  not  resist  the  vexation  of  his  wounded 
pride.  The  interview  to  which  he  had  to  re- 
sign himself  was  monstrous  enough  in  itself  ; 
it  may  be  imagined  then,  what  he  felt  at 
hearing  himself  spoken  to  in  such  terms. 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  almost  beside  himself, 
and  determined  to  close  the  matter  at  any 
cost.  "  You  are  not  such  a  fool  that  you  can- 
not understand  a  word  of  common  sense. 
Are  you  rich?  No.  Are  you  noble?  Still 
less  so.  What  is  this  frenzy  that  brings  you 
here  ?  You  come  to  worry  me,  you  think  you 
are  doing  something  clever  ;  you  know  per- 
fectly well  that  it  is  useless  ;  you  wish  to 
make  me  responsible  for  your  death.  Have 
you  any  right  to  complain  of  me  ?  Do 
I  owe  a  sou  to  your  father?  Is  it  my  fault 
that  you  have  come  to  this  ?  Mon  Dieu  ! 


CROISILLES.  199 

When  a  man  is  going  to  drown  himself,  he 
keeps  quiet  about  it — " 

"  That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do  now.  I 
am  your  very  humble  servant." 

"  One  moment  !  It  shall  not  be  said  that 
you  had  recourse  to  me  in  vain.  There,  my 
boy,  here  are  three  louis  d'or  ;  go  and  have 
dinner  in  the  kitchen,  and  let  me  hear  no 
more  about  you." 

"  Much  obliged  ;  I  am  not  hungry,  and  I 
have  no  use  for  your  money." 

So  Croisilles  left  the  room,  and  the  financier, 
having  set  his  conscience  at  rest  by  the  offer 
he  had  just  made,  settled  himself  more  com- 
fortably in  his  chair,  and  resumed  his  medita- 
tions. 

Mademoiselle  Godeau,  during  this  time, 
was  not  so  far  away  as  one  might  suppose  ; 
she  had,  it  is  true,  withdrawn  in  obedience  to 
her  father  ;  but,  instead  of  going  to  her  room, 
she  had  remained  listening  behind  the  door.  If 
the  extravagance  of  Croisilles  seemed  incredi- 
ble to  her,  still  she  found  nothing  to  offend 
her  in  it  ;  for  love,  since  the  world  has  ex- 
isted, has  never  passed  as  an  insult.  On  the 
other  hand,  as  it  was  not  possible  to  doubt 
the  despair  of  the  young  man,  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  found  herself  a  victim,  atone  and  the 
same  time,  to  the  two  sentiments  most  dan- 


200  CROISILLES. 

gerous  to  women — compassion  and  curiosity. 
When  she  saw  the  interview  at  an  end,  and 
Croisilles  ready  to  come  out,  she  rapidly 
crossed  the  drawing-room  where  she  stood, 
not  wishing  to  be  surprised  eavesdropping, 
and  hurried  towards  her  apartment  ;  but  she 
almost  immediately  retraced  her  steps.  The 
idea  that  perhaps  Croisilles  was  really  going 
to  put  an  end  to  his  life  troubled  her  in  spite  of 
herself.  Scarcely  aware  of  what  she  was  doing, 
she  walked  to  meet  him  ;  the  drawing-room 
was  large,  and  the  two  young  people  came 
slowly  towards  each  other.  Croisilles  was  as 
pale  as  death,  and  Mademoiselle  Godeau 
vainly  sought  words  to  express  her  feelings. 
In  passing  beside  him,  she  let  fall  on  the 
floor  a  bunch  of  violets  which  she  held  in  her 
hand.  He  at  once  bent  down  and  picked  up 
the  bouquet  in  order  to  give  it  back  to  her,  bu( 
instead  of  taking  it,  she  passed  on  without 
uttering  a  word,  and  entered  her  father's 
room.  Croisilles,  alone  again,  put  the  flow- 
ers in  his  breast,  and  left  the  house  with  a 
troubled  heart,  not  knowing  what  to  think  of 
his  adventure. 


CROISILLES.  201 


III. 

Scarcely  had  he  taken  a  few  steps  in  the 
street,  when  he  saw  his  faithful  friend  Jean 
running  towards  him  with  a  joyful  face. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  he  asked  ;  "  have 
you  news  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Jean  ;  "  I  have  to  tell  you 
that  the  seals  have  been  officially  broken  and 
that  you  can  enter  your  home.  All  your  fa- 
ther's debts  being  paid,  you  remain  the  own- 
er of  the  house.  It  is  true  that  all  the  money 
and  all  the  jewels  have  been  taken  away  ; 
but  at  least  the  house  belongs  to  you,  and 
you  have  not  lost  everything.  I  have  been 
running  about  for  an  hour,  not  knowing  what 
had  become  of  you,  and  I  hope,  my  denr 
master,  that  you  will  now  be  wise  enough  to 
take  a  reasonable  course." 

"  What  course  do  you  wish  me  to  take  ?  " 

"  Sell  this  house,  sir,  it  is  all  your  fortune. 
It  will  bring  you  about  thirty  thousand  francs. 
With  that  at  any  rate  you  will  not  die  of 
hunger  ;  and  what  is  to  prevent  you  from 
buying  a  little  stock  in  trade,  and  starting 
business  for  yourself  ?  You  would  surely 
prosper." 

"  We  shall  see  about  this,"  answered  Croi- 


=02  CROISILLES. 

silles,  as  he  hurried  to  the  street  where  his 
home  was.  He  was  eager  to  see  the  paternal 
roof  again.  But  when  he  arrived  there  so 
sad  a  spectacle  met  his  gaze,  that  he  had 
scarcely  the  courage  to  enter.  The  shop  was 
in  utter  disorder,  the  rooms  deserted,  his  fa- 
ther's alcove  empty.  Everything  presented  to 
his  eyes  the  wretchedness  of  utter  ruin.  Not  a 
chair  remained  ;  all  the  drawers  had  been  ran- 
sacked, the  till  broken  open,  the  chest  taken 
away  ;  nothing  had  escaped  the  greedy 
search  of  creditors  and  lawyers  ;  who,  after 
having  pillaged  the  house,  had  gone,  leaving 
the  doors  open,  as  though  to  testify  to  all 
passers-by  how  neatly  their  work  was  done. 

"  This,  then,"  exclaimed  Croisilles,  "  is  all 
that  remains  after  thirty  years  of  work  and  a 
respectable  life, — and  all  through  the  failure 
to  have  ready,  on  a  given  day,  money  enough 
to  honor  a  signature  imprudently  given  !  " 

While  the  young  man  walked  up  and  down 
given  over  to  the  saddest  thoughts,  Jean 
seemed  very  much  embarrassed.  He  sup- 
posed that  his  master  was  without  ready  mon- 
ey, and  that  he  might  perhaps  not  even  have 
dined.  He  was  therefore  trying  to  think  of 
some  way  to  question  him  on  the  subject,  and 
to  offer  him,  in  case  of  need,  some  part  of  his 
savings.  After  having  tortured  his  mind  for 


CROISILLES.  203 

a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  try  and  hit  upon  some 
way  of  leading  up  to  the  subject,  he  could 
find  nothing  better  than  to  come  up  to  Croi- 
silles,  and  ask  him,  in  a  kindly  voice  : 

"  Sir,  do  you  still  like  roast  partridges  ? " 

The  poor  man  uttered  this  question  in  a 
tone  at  once  so  comical  and  so  touching,  that 
Croisilles,  in  spite  of  his  sadness,  could  not 
refrain  from  laughing. 

"  And  why  do  you  ask  me  that  ? "  said  he. 

"  My  wife,"  replied  Jean,  "  is  cooking  me 
some  for  dinner,  sir,  and  if  by  chance  you 
still  liked  them — " 

Croisilles  had  completely  forgotten  till  now 
the  money  which  he  was  bringing  back  to  his 
father.  Jean's  proposal  reminded  him  that 
his  pockets  were  full  of  gold. 

"  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,"  said  he 
to  the  old  man,  "  and  I  accept  your  dinner 
with  pleasure  ;  but,  if  you  are  anxious  about 
my  fortune,  be  reassured.  I  have  more  mon- 
ey than  I  need  to  have  a  good  supper  this 
evening,  which  you,  in  your  turn,  will  share 
with  me." 

Saying  this,  he  laid  upon  the  mantel  four 
well-filled  purses,  which  he  emptied,  each  con- 
taining fifty  louis. 

"  Although  this  sum  does  not  belong  to 
me,"  he  added,  "  I  can  use  it  for  a  day  or 


204  CROISILLES. 

two.  To  whom  must  I  go  to  have  it  for- 
warded to  my  father  ? " 

"  Sir,"  replied  Jean,  eagerly,  "  your  father 
especially  charged  me  to  tell  you  that  this 
money  belongs  to  you,  and,  if  I  did  not  speak 
of  it  before,  it  was  because  I  did  not  know 
how  your  affairs  in  Paris  had  turned  out. 
Where  he  has  gone  your  father  will  want  for 
nothing  ;  he  will  lodge  with  one  of  your  cor- 
respondents, who  will  receive  him  most  glad- 
ly ;  he  has  moreover  taken  with  him  enough 
for  his  immediate  needs,  for  he  was  quite  sure 
of  still  leaving  behind  more  than  was  neces- 
sary to  pay  all  his  just  debts.  All  that  he 
has  left,  sir,  is  yours  ;  he  says  so  himself 
in  his  letter,  and  I  am  especially  charged  to 
repeat  it  to  you.  That  gold  is,  therefore,  legit- 
imately your  property,  as  this  house  in 
which  we  are  now.  I  can  repeat  to  you  the 
very  words  your  father  said  to  me  on  embark- 
ing :  '  May  my  son  forgive  me  for  leaving 
him  ;  may  he  remember  that  I  am  still  in  the 
world  only  to  love  me,  and  let  him  use  what 
remains  after  my  debts  are  paid  as  though  it 
were  his  inheritance.'  Those,  sir,  are  his  own 
expressions  ;  so  put  this  back  in  your  pocket, 
and,  since  you  accept  my  dinner,  pray  let  us 
go  home." 

The  honest  joy  which  shone  in  Jean's  eyes, 


CROISILLES.  205 

left  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  Croisilles.  The 
words  of  his  father  had  moved  him  to  such 
a  point  that  he  could  not  restrain  his  tears  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  at  such  a  moment,  four 
thousand  francs  were  no  bagatelle.  As  to  the 
house,  it  was  not  an  available  resource,  for  one 
could  realize  on  it  only  by  selling  it,  and 
that  was  both  difficult  and  slow.  All  this, 
however,  could  not  but  make  a  considerable 
change  in  the  situation  the  young  man  found 
himself  in  ;  so  he  felt  suddenly  moved — 
shaken  in  his  dismal  resolution,  and,  so  to 
speak,  both  sad  and,  at  the  same  time,  re- 
lieved of  much  of  his  distress.  After  having 
closed  the  shutters  of  the  shop,  he  left  the 
house  with  Jean,  and  as  he  once  more  crossed 
the  town,  could  not  help  thinking  how  small 
a  thing  our  affections  are,  since  they  some- 
times serve  to  make  us  find  an  unforeseen 
joy  in  the  faintest  ray  of  hope.  It  was  with 
this  thought  that  he  sat  down  to  dinner 
beside  his  old  servant,  who  did  not  fail, 
during  the  repast,  to  make  every  effort  to 
cheer  him. 

Heedless  people  have  a  happy  fault.  They 
are  easily  cast  down,  but  they  have  not  even 
the  trouble  to  console  themselves,  so  change- 
able is  their  mind.  It  would  be  a  mistake  to 
think  them,  on  that  account,  insensible  or 


206  CR01SILLES. 

selfish  ;  on  the  contrary  they  perhaps  feel 
more  keenly  than  others  and  are  but  too 
prone  to  blow  their  brains  out  in  a  moment 
of  despair  ;  but,  this  moment  once  passed,  if 
they  are  still  alive,  they  must  dine,  they  must 
eat,  they  must  drink,  as  usual  ;  only  to  melt 
into  tears  again,  at  bed-time.  Joy  and  pain 
do  not  glide  over  them  but  pierce  them 
through  like  arrows.  Kind,  hot-headed 
natures  which  know  how  to  suffer,  but  not 
how  to  lie,  through  which  one  can  clearly 
read, — not  fragile  and  empty  like  glass,  but 
solid  and  transparent  like  rock  crystal. 

After  having  clinked  glasses  with  Jean, 
Croisilles,  instead  of  drowning  himself,  went  to 
the  play.  Standing  at  the  back  of  the  pit,  he 
drew  from  his  bosom  Mademoiselle  Godeau's 
bouquet,  and,  as  he  breathed  the  perfume  in 
deep  meditation,  he  began  to  think  in  a 
calmer  spirit  about  his  adventure  of  the 
morning.  As  soon  as  he  had  pondered  over 
it  for  awhile,  he  saw  clearly  the  truth  ;  that 
is  to  say,  that  the  young  lady,  in  leaving  the 
bouquet  in  his  hands,  and  in  refusing  to  take 
it  back,  had  wished  to  give  him  a  mark  of 
interest  ;  for  otherwise  this  refusal  and  this 
silence  could  only  have  been  marks  of  con- 
tempt, and  such  a  supposition  was  not  pos- 
sible. Croisilles,  therefore,  judged  that 


CROISILLES.  207 

Mademoiselle  Godeau's  heart  was  of  a  softer 
grain  than  her  father's,  and  he  remembered 
distinctly  that  the  young  lady's  face,  when 
she  crossed  the  drawing-room,  had  expressed 
an  emotion  the  more  true  that  it  seemed  in- 
voluntary. But  was  this  emotion  one  of  love, 
or  only  of  sympathy  ?  Or  was  it  perhaps 
something  of  still  less  importance, — mere 
commonplace  pity  ?  Had  Mademoiselle  Go- 
deau  feared  to  see  him  die — him,  Croisilles — 
or  merely  to  be  the  cause  of  the  death  of 
a  man,  no  matter  what  man  ?  Although 
withered  and  almost  leafless,  the  bouquet 
still  retained  so  exquisite  an  odor  and  so 
brave  a  look,  that  in  breathing  it  and  looking 
at  it,  Croisilles  could  not  help  hoping.  It 
was  a  thin  garland  of  roses  round  a  bunch  of 
violets.  What  mysterious  depths  of  senti- 
ment an  Oriental  might  have  read  in  these 
flowers,  by  interpreting  their  language  !  But 
after  all,  he  need  not  be  an  Oriental  in 
this  case.  The  flowers  which  fall  from  the 
breast  of  a  pretty  woman,  in  Europe,  as  in 
the  East,  are  never  mute  ;  were  they  but  to 
tell  what  they  have  seen  while  reposing  in 
that  lovely  bosom,  it  would  be  enough  for  a 
lover,  and  this,  in  fact,  they  do.  Perfumes 
have  more  than  one  resemblance  to  love, 
and  there  are  even  people  who  think  love  to 


208  CROISILLES. 

be  but  a  sort  of  perfume  ;  it  is  true  the 
flowers  which  exhale  it  ai'e  the  most  beautiful 
in  creation. 

While  Croisilles  mused  thus,  paying  very 
little  attention  to  the  tragedy  that  was  being 
acted  at  the  time,  Mademoiselle  Godeau 
herself  appeared  in  a  box  opposite. 

The  idea  did  not  occur  to  the  young  man 
that,  if  she  should  notice  him,  she  might 
think  it  very  strange  to  find  the  would-be 
suicide  there  after  what  had  transpired  in 
the  morning.  He,  on  the  contrary,  bent  all 
his  efforts  towards  getting  nearer  to  her  ; 
but  he  could  not  succeed.  A  fifth-rate 
actress  from  Paris  had  come  to  play  Mdrope, 
and  the  crowd  was  so  dense  that  one  could 
not  move.  For  lack  of  anything  better, 
Croisilles  had  to  content  himself  with  fixing 
his  gaze  upon  his  lady-love,  not  lifting  his 
eyes  from  her  for  a  moment.  He  noticed 
that  she  seemed  pre-occupied  and  moody,  and 
that  she  spoke  to  every  one  with  a  sort 
of  repugnance.  Her  box  was  surrounded, 
as  may  be  imagined,  by  all  the  fops  of  the 
neighborhood,  each  of  whom  passed  several 
times  before  her  in  the  gallery,  totally  unable 
to  enter  the  box,  of  which  her  father  filled 
more  than  three-fourths.  Croisilles  noticed 
further  that  she  was  not  using  her  opera- 


CROISILLES.  209 

glasses,  nor  was  she  listening  to  the  play. 
Her  elbows  resting  on  the  balustrade,  her 
chin  in  her  hand,  with  her  far-away  look,  she 
seemed,  in  all  her  sumptuous  apparel,  like 
some  statue  of  Venus  disguised  en  marquise. 
The  display  of  her  dress  and  her  hair,  her 
rouge,  beneath  which  one  could  guess  her 
paleness,  all  the  splendor  of  her  toilet,  did  but 
the  more  distinctly  bring  out  the  immobility  of 
her  countenance.  Never  had  Croisilles  seen 
her  so  beautiful.  Having  found  means,  be- 
tween the  acts,  to  escape  from  the  crush,  he 
hurried  off  to  look  at  her  from  the  passage 
leading  to  her  box,  and,  strange  to  say, 
scarcely  had  he  reached  it,  when  Mademoiselle 
Godeau,  who  had  not  stirred  for  the  last  hour, 
turned  round.  She  started  slightly  as  she 
noticed  him  and  only  cast  a  glance  at  him  ; 
then  she  resumed  her  former  attitude. 
Whether  that  glance  expressed  surprise,  anx- 
iety, pleasure  or  love ;  whether  it  meant 
"What,  not  dead  ! "  or  "  God  be  praised  ! 
There  you  are,  living  !  " — I  do  not  pretend  to 
explain.  Be  that  as  it  may  ;  at  that  glance, 
Croisilles  inwardly  swore  to  himself  to  die  or 
gain  her  love 


210  CROISILLES. 


IV. 


Of  all  the  obstacles  which  hinder  the 
smooth  course  of  love,  the  greatest  is,  with- 
out doubt,  what  is  called  false  shame,  which 
is  indeed  a  very  potent  obstacle. 

Croisilles  was  not  troubled  with  this  un- 
happy failing,  which  both  pride  and  timidity 
combine  to  produce  ;  he  was  not  one  of  those 
who,  for  whole  months,  hover  round  the 
woman  they  love,  like  a  cat  round  a  caged 
bird.  As  soon  as  he  had  given  up  the  idea 
of  drowning  himself,  he  thought  only  of 
letting  his  dear  Julie  know  that  he  lived 
solely  for  her.  But  how  could  he  tell  her 
so  ?  Should  he  present  himself  a  second  time 
at  the  mansion  of  the  fennier-gdntral,  it  was 
but  too  certain  that  M.  Godeau  would  have 
him  ejected.  Julie,  when  she  happened  to 
take  a  walk,  never  went  without  her  maid  ;  it 
was  therefore  useless  to  undertake  to  follow 
her.  To  pass  the  nights  under  the  windows 
of  one's  beloved  is  a  folly  dear  to  lovers,  but, 
in  the  present  case,  it  would  certainly  prove 
vain.  I  said  before  that  Croisilles  was  very 
religious  ;  it  therefore  never  entered  his  mind 
to  seek  to  meet  his  lady-love  at  church.  As 
the  best  way,  though  the  most  dangerous,  is 


CROISILLES.  211 

to  write  to  people  when  one  cannot  speak  to 
them  in  person,  he  decided  on  the  very  next 
day  to  write  to  the  young  lady. 

His  letter  possessd,  naturally,  neither  order 
nor  reason.  It  read  somewhat  as  follows  : 

"MADEMOISELLE  : 

"  Tell  me  exactly,  I  beg  of  you,  what  for- 
tune one  must  possess  to  be  able  to  pretend 
to  your  hand.  I  am  asking  you  a  strange 
question  ;  but  I  love  you  so  desperately,  that 
it  is  impossible  for  me  not  to  ask  it,  and  you 
are  the  only  person  in  the  world  to  whom  I 
can  address  it.  It  seemed  to  me,  last  even- 
ing, that  you  looked  at  me  at  the  play.  I  had 
wished  to  die;  would  to  God  I  were  indeed 
dead,  if  I  am  mistaken,  and  if  that  look  was 
not  meant  for  me.  Tell  me  if  Fate  can  be 
so  cruel  as  to  let  a  man  deceive  himself  in  a 
manner  at  once  so  sad  and  so  sweet.  I  be- 
lieve that  you  commanded  me  to  live.  You 
are  rich,  beautiful.  I  know  it.  Your  father  is 
arrogant  and  miserly,  and  you  have  a  right 
to  be  proud  ;  but  I  love  you,  and  the  rest  is 
a  dream.  Fix  your  charming  eyes  on  me  ; 
think  of  what  love  can  do,  when  I  who  suffer 
so  cruelly,  who  must  stand  in  fear  of  every- 
thing, feel,  nevertheless,  an  inexpressible  joy 
in  writing  you  this  mad  letter,  which  will  per- 
haps bring  down  your  anger  upon  me.  But 
think  also,  mademoiselle,  that  you  are  a  little 
to  blame  for  this,  my  folly.  Why  did  you 
drop  that  bouquet?  Put  yourself  for  an  in- 
stant, if  possible,  in  my  place ;  I  dare  think 


212  CROISILLES. 

that  you  love  me,  and  I  dare  ask  you  to  tell 
me  so.  Forgive  me,  I  beseech  you.  I  would 
give  my  life's  blood  to  be  sure  of  not  offend- 
ing you,  and  to  see  you  listening  to  my  love 
with  that  angel  smile  which  belongs  only  to 
you. 

"  Whatever  you  may  do,  your  image  re- 
mains mine  ;  you  can  remove  it  only  by  tear- 
ing out  my  heart.  As  long  as  your  look 
lives  in  my  remembrance,  as  long  as  the  bou- 
quet keeps  a  trace  of  its  perfume,  as  long  as 
a  word  will  tell  of  love,  I  will  cherish  hope." 

Having  sealed  his  letter,  Croisilles  went 
out  and  walked  up  and  down  the  street  op- 
posite the  Godeau  mansion,  waiting  for  a 
servant  to  come  out.  Chance,  which  always 
serves  mysterious  loves,  when  it  can  do  so 
without  compromising  itself,  willed  it  that 
Mademoiselle  Julie's  maid  should  have  ar- 
ranged to  purchase  a  cap  on  that  day.  She 
was  going  to  the  milliner's  when  Croisilles 
accosted  her,  slipped  a  louis  into  her  hand, 
and  asked  her  to  take  charge  of  his  letter. 
The  bargain  was  soon  struck  ;  the  servant 
took  the  money  to  pay  for  her  cap  and  prom- 
ised to  do  the  errand  out  of  gratitude.  Croi- 
silles, full  of  joy,  went  home  and  sat  at  his 
door  awaiting  an  answer. 

Before  speaking  of  this  answer,  a  word 
must  be  said  about  Mademoiselle  Godeau. 


CROISIl.LES.  213 

She  was  not  quite  free  from  the  vanity  of  her 
father,  but  her  good  nature  was  ever  upper- 
most. She  was,  in  the  full  meaning  of  the 
term,  a  spoilt  child.  She  habitually  spoke 
very  little,  and  never  was  she  seen  with  a 
needle  in  her  hand  ;  she  spent  her  days  at 
her  toilet,  and  her  evenings  on  the  sofa,  not 
seeming  to  hear  the  conversation  going  on 
around  her.  As  regards  her  dress,  she  was 
prodigiously  coquettish,  and  her  own  face  was 
surely  what  she  thought  most  of  on  earth. 
A  wrinkle  in  her  collarette,  an  ink-spot  on 
her  finger,  would  have  distressed  her  ;  and, 
when  her  dress  pleased  her,  nothing  can  de- 
scribe the  last  look  which  she  cast  at  her 
mirror  before  leaving  the  room.  She  showed 
neither  taste  nor  aversion  for  the  pleasures 
in  which  young  ladies  usually  delight.  She 
went  to  balls  willingly  enough,  and  renounced 
going  to  them  without  a  show  of  temper, 
sometimes  without  motive.  The  play  wearied 
her,  and  she  was  in  the  constant  habit  of  fall- 
ing asleep  there.  When  her  father,  who 
worshipped  her,  proposed  to  make  her  some 
present  of  her  own  choice,  she  took  an  hour 
to  decide,  not  being  able  to  think  of  any- 
thing she  cared  for.  When  M.  Godeau  gave 
a  reception  or  a  dinner,  it  often  happened 
that  Julie  would  not  appear  in  the  drawing- 


214  CROISILLES. 

room,  and  at  such  times  she  passed  the  even- 
ing alone  in  her  own  room,  in  full  dress, 
walking  up  and  down,  her  fan  in  her  hand. 
If  a  compliment  was  addressed  to  her,  she 
turned  away  her  head,  and  if  any  one  at- 
tempted to  pay  court  to  her,  she  responded 
only  by  a  look  at  once  so  dazzling  and  so 
serious  as  to  disconcert  even  the  boldest. 
Never  had  a  sally  made  her  laugh  ;  never 
had  an  air  in  an  opera,  a  flight  of  tragedy, 
moved  her ;  indeed,  never  had  her  heart 
given  a  sign  of  life  ;  and,  on  seeing  her  pass 
in  all  the  splendor  of  her  nonchalant  loveli- 
ness one  might  have  taken  her  fora  beautiful 
somnambulist,  walking  through  the  world  as 
in  a  trance. 

So  much  indifference  and  coquetry  did  not 
seem  easy  to  understand.  Some  said  she 
loved  nothing,  others  that  she  loved  nothing 
but  herself.  A  single  word,  however,  suf- 
fices to  explain  her  character, — she  was  wait- 
ing. From  the  age  of  fourteen  she  had  heard 
it  ceaselessly  repeated  that  nothing  was  so 
charming  as  she.  She  was  convinced  of  this, 
and  that  was  why  she  paid  so  much  attention 
to  dress.  In  failing  to  do  honor  to  her  own 
person,  she  would  have  thought  herself 
guilty  of  sacrilege.  She  walked,  in  her 
beauty,  so  to  speak,  like  a  child  in  its  holiday 


CROISILLES.  215 

dress  ;  but  she  was  very  far  from  thinking  that 
her  beauty  was  to  remain  useless.  Beneath 
her  apparent  unconcern  she  had  a  will,  secret, 
inflexible,  and  the  more  potent  the  better  it 
was  concealed.  The  coquetry  of  ordinary 
women,  which  spends  itself  in  ogling,  in  simper- 
ing, and  in  smiling,  seemed  to  her  a  childish, 
vain,  almost  contemptible  way  of  fighting  with 
shadows.  She  felt  herself  in  possession  of  a 
treasure,  and  she  disdained  to  stake  it  piece 
by  piece  ;  she  needed  an  adversary  worthy 
of  herself ;  but,  too  accustomed  to  see  her 
wishes  anticipated,  she  did  not  seek  that  ad- 
versary ;  it  may  even  be  said  that  she  felt 
astonished  at  his  failing  to  present  himself. 
For  the  four  or  five  years  that  she  had  been 
out  in  society  and  had  conscientiously  dis- 
played her  flowers,  her  furbelows,  and  her 
beautiful  shoulders,  it  seemed  to  her  incon- 
ceivable that  she  had  not  yet  inspired  some 
great  passion.  Had  she  said  what  was  really 
behind  her  thoughts,  she  certainly  would 
have  replied  to  her  many  flatterers  :  "  Well  ! 
if  it  is  true  that  I  am  so  beautiful,  why  do 
you  not  blow  your  brains  out  for  me  ? "  An 
answer  which  many  other  young  girls  might 
make,  and  which  more  than  one  who  says 
nothing  hides  away  in  a  corner  of  her  heart, 
not  far  perhaps  from  the  tip  of  her  tongue. 


216  CROISILLES. 

What  is  there,  indeed,  in  the  world,  more 
tantalizing  for  a  woman  than  to  be  young, 
rich,  beautiful,  to  look  at  herself  in  her  mir- 
ror and  see  herself  charmingly  dressed, 
worthy  in  every  way  to  please,  fully  disposed 
to  allow  herself  to  be  loved,  and  to  have  to 
say  to  herself  :  "I  am  admired,  I  am  praised, 
all  the  world  thinks  me  charming,  but  nobody 
loves  me.  My  gown  is  by  the  best  maker, 
my  laces  are  superb,  my  coiffure  is  irreproach- 
able, my  face  the  most  beautiful  on  earth, 
my  figure  slender,  my  foot  prettily  turned, 
and  all  this  helps  me  to  nothing  but  to  go 
and  yawn  in  the  corner  of  some  drawing- 
room  !  If  a  young  man  speaks  to  me  he 
treats  me  as  a  child  ;  if  I  am  asked  in  mar- 
riage, it  is  for  my  dowry  ;  if  somebody  presses 
my  hand  in  a  dance,  it  is  sure  to  be  some  pro- 
vincial fop  ;  as  soon  as  I  appear  anywhere,  I 
excite  a  murmur  of  admiration  ;  but  no- 
body speaks  low,  in  my  ear,  a  word  that 
makes  my  heart  beat.  I  hear  impertinent 
men  praising  me  in  loud  tones,  a  couple  of 
feet  away,  and  never  a  look  of  humbly  sincere 
adoration  meets  mine.  Still  I  have  an  ardent 
soul  full  of  life,  and  I  am  not,  by  any  means, 
only  a  pretty  doll  to  be  shown  about,  to  be 
made  to  dance  at  a  ball,  to  be  dressed  by  a 
maid  in  the  morning  and  undressed  at  night — 


CKOrSILLES.  217 

beginning  the  whole  thing  over  again  the  next 
day." 

That  is  what  Mademoiselle  Godeau  had 
many  times  said  to  herself  ;  and  there  were 
hours  when  that  thought  inspired  her  with  so 
gloomy  a  feeling  that  she  remained  mute  and 
almost  motionless  for  a  whole  day.  When 
Croisilles  wrote  her,  she  was  in  just  such  a 
fit  of  ill-humor.  She  had  just  been  taking 
her  chocolate  and  was  deep  in  meditation, 
stretched  upon  a  lounge,  when  her  maid 
entered  and  handed  her  the  letter  with  a  mys- 
terious air.  She  looked  at  the  address,  and 
not  recognizing  the  handwriting,  fell  again 
to  musing.  The  maid  then  saw  herself  forced 
to  explain  what  it  was,  which  she  did  with  a 
rather  disconcerted  air,  not  being  at  all  sure 
how  the  young  lady  would  take  the  matter. 
Mademoiselle  Godeau  listened  without  mov- 
ing, then  opened  the  letter,  and  cast  only 
a  glance  at  it  ;  she  at  once  asked  for  a  sheet 
of  paper,  and  nonchalantly  wrote  these  few 
words  : 

"  No,  sir,  I  assure  you  I  am  not  proud.  If 
you  had  only  a  hundred  thousand  crowns,  I 
would  willingly  marry  you." 

Such  was  the  reply  which  the  maid  at 
once  took  to  Croisilles,  who  gave  her  another 
louis  for  her  trouble. 


2l8  CROISILLES. 


V. 


A  hundred  thousand  crowns  are  not  found 
"  in  a  donkey's  hoof-print,"  and  if  Croisilles 
had  been  suspicious  he  might  have  thought 
in  reading  Mademoiselle  Godeau's  letter  that 
she  was  either  crazy  or  laughing  at  him.  He 
thought  neither,  for  he  only  saw  in  it  that  his 
darling  Julie  loved  him,  and  that  he  must 
have  a  hundred  thousand  crowns,  and  he 
dreamed  from  that  moment  of  nothing  but 
trying  to  secure  them. 

He  possessed  two  hundred  louis  in  cash, 
plus  a  house  which,  as  I  have  said,  might  be 
worth  about  thirty  thousand  francs.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  How  was  he  to  go  about 
transfiguring  these  thirty-four  thousand 
francs,  at  a  jump,  into  three  hundred  thous- 
and. The  first  idea  which  came  into  the  mind 
of  the  young  man  was  to  find  some  way  of 
staking  his  whole  fortune  on  the  toss-up  of  a 
coin,  but  for  that  he  must  sell  the  house. 
Croisilles  therefore  began  by  putting  a  notice 
upon  the  door,  stating  that  his  house  was  for 
sale  ;  then,  while  dreaming  what  he  would 
do  with  the  money  that  he  would  get  for  it, 
he  awaited  a  purchaser. 

A  week  went  by,  then  another  ;  not  a  single 


CROISILLES.  219 

purchaser  applied.  More  and  more  distressed, 
Croisilles  spent  these  days  with  Jean,  and  de- 
spair was  taking  possession  of  him  once  more, 
when  a  Jewish  broker  rang  at  the  door. 

"  This  house  is  for  sale,  sir,  is  it  not  ?  Are 
you  the  owner  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  how  much  is  it  worth  ? " 

"  Thirty  thousand  francs,  I  believe  ;  at 
least  I  have  heard  my  father  say  so." 

The  Jew  visited  all  the  rooms,  went  up- 
stairs and  down  into  the  cellar,  knocking  on 
the  walls,  counting  the  steps  of  the  staircase, 
turning  the  doors  on  their  hinges  and  the 
keys  in  their  locks,  opening  and  closing  the 
windows  ;  then,  at  last,  after  having  thor- 
oughly examined  everything,  without  saying 
a  word  and  without  making  the  slightest  pro- 
posal, he  bowed  to  Croisilles  and  retired. 

Croisilles,  who  for  a  whole  hour  had  fol- 
lowed him  with  a  palpitating  heart,  as  maybe 
imagined,  was  not  a  little  disappointed  at  this 
silent  retreat.  He  thought  that  perhaps  the 
Jew  had  wished  to  give  himself  time  to  reflect 
and  that  he  would  return  presently.  He  waited 
a  week  for  him,  not  daring  to  go  out  for  fear 
of  missing  his  visit,  and  looking  out  of  the 
windows  from  morning  till  night.  But  it  was 
in  vain  ;  the  Jew  did  not  reappear.  Jean,  true 


220  CROISILLES. 

to  his  unpleasant  role  of  adviser,  brought  moral 
pressure  to  bear  to  dissuade  his  master  from 
selling  his  house  in  so  hasty  a  manner  and 
for  so  extravagant  a  purpose.  Dying  of  im- 
patience, ennui,  and  love,  Croisilles  one 
morning  took  his  two  hundred  louis  and 
went  out,  determined  to  tempt  fortune  with 
this  sum,  since  he  could  not  have  more. 

The  gaming-houses  at  that  time  were  not 
public,  and  that  refinement  of  civilization 
which  enables  the  first  comer  to  ruin  himself 
at  all  hours,  as  soon  as  the  wish  enters  his 
mind,  had  not  yet  been  invented. 

Scarcely  was  Croisilles  in  the  street  before 
he  stopped,  not  knowing  where  to  go  to 
stake  his  money.  He  looked  at  the  houses 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  eyed  them,  one 
after  the  other,  striving  to  discover  suspi- 
cious appearances  that  might  point  out  to 
him  the  object  of  his  search.  A  good-look- 
ing young  man,  splendidly  dressed,  happened 
to  pass.  Judging  from  his  mien,  he  was  cer- 
tainly a  young  man  of  gentle  blood  and 
ample  leisure,  so  Croisilles  politely  accosted 
him. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the 
liberty  I  take.  I  have  two  hundred  louis  in 
my  pocket  and  I  am  dying  either  to  lose 
them  or  win  more.  Could  you  not  point  out 


CROISILLES.  221 

to  me  some  respectable  place  where  such 
things  are  done  ?" 

At  this  rather  strange  speech  the  young 
man  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Upon  my  word,  sir  !  "  answered  he,  "  if 
you  are  seeking  any  such  wicked  place  you 
have  but  to  follow  me,  for  that  is  just  where 
I  am  going." 

Croisilles  followed  him,  and  a  few  steps 
farther  they  both  entered  a  house  of  very 
attractive  appearance,  where  they  were  re- 
ceived hospitably  by  an  old  gentleman  of  the 
highest  breeding.  Several  young  men  were 
already  seated  round  a  green  cloth  ;  Croisilles 
modestly  took  a  place  there,  and  in  less  than 
an  hour  his  two  hundred  louis  were  gone. 

He  came  out  as  sad  as  a  lover  can  be  who 
thinks  himself  beloved.  He  had  not  enough 
to  dine  with,  but  that  did  not  cause  him  any 
anxiety. 

"  What  can  I  do  now,"  he  asked  himself, 
"  to  get  money  ?  To  whom  shall  I  address 
myself  in  this  town  ?  Who  will  lend  me  even 
a  hundred  louis  on  this  house  that  I  can  not 
sell?" 

While  he  was  in  this  quandary,  he  met  his 
Jewish  broker.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  ad- 
dress him,  and,  featherhead  as  he  was,  did 
not  fail  to  tell  him  the  plight  he  was  in. 


222  CROISILLES. 

The  Jew  did  not  much  want  to  buy  the 
house ;  he  had  come  to  see  it  only  through 
curiosity,  or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  for  the 
satisfaction  of  his  own  conscience,  as  a  pass- 
ing dog  goes  into  a  kitchen,  the  door  of 
which  stands  open,  to  see  if  there  is  nothing 
to  steal.  But  when  he  saw  Croisilles  so  de- 
spondent, so  sad,  so  bereft  of  all  resources, 
he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  put  him- 
self to  some  inconvenience,  even,  in  order  to 
pay  for  the  house.  He  therefore  offered  him 
about  one-fourth  of  its  value.  Croisilles  fell 
upon  his  neck,  called  him  his  friend  and 
saviour,  blindly  signed  a  bargain  that  would 
have  made  one's  hair  stand  on  end,  and,  on 
the  very  next  day,  the  possessor  of  four  hun- 
dred new  louis,  he  once  more  turned  his 
steps  toward  the  gambling-house  where  he 
had  been  so  politely  and  speedily  ruined  the 
night  before. 

On  his  way,  he  passed  by  the  wharf.  A 
vessel  was  about  leaving ;  the  wind  was  gen- 
tle, the  ocean  tranquil.  On  all  sides,  mer- 
chants, sailors,  officers  in  uniform  were  com- 
ing and  going.  Porters  were  carrying  enor- 
mous bales  of  merchandise.  Passengers  and 
their  friends  were  exchanging  farewells, 
small  boats  were  rowing  about  in  all  direc- 
tions ;  on  every  face  could  be  read  fear,  im- 


CROISILLES.  223 

patience,  or  hope  ;  and,  amidst  all  the  agita- 
tion which  surrounded  it,  the  majestic  vessel 
swayed  gently  to  and  fro  under  the  wind  that 
swelled  her  proud  sails. 

"  What  a  grand  thing  it  is,"  thought  Croi- 
silles,  "  to  risk  all  one  possesses  and  go  be- 
yond the  sea,  in  perilous  search  of  fortune  ! 
How  it  fills  me  with  emotion  to  look  at  this 
vessel  setting  out  on  her  voyage,  loaded  with 
so  much  wealth,  with  the  welfare  of  so  many 
families  !  What  joy  to  see  her  come  back 
again,  bringing  twice  as  much  as  was  in- 
trusted to  her,  returning  so  much  prouder 
and  richer  than  she  went  away  !  Why  am  I 
not  one  of  those  merchants  ?  Why  could  I 
not  stake  my  four  hundred  louis  in  this  way  ? 
This  immense  sea  !  What  a  green  cloth,  on 
which  to  boldly  tempt  fortune  !  Why  should 
I  not  myself  buy  a  few  bales  of  cloth  or  silk  ? 
What  is  to  prevent  my  doing  so,  since  I  have 
gold  ?  Why  should  this  captain  refuse  to 
take  charge  of  my  merchandise  ?  And  who 
knows  ?  Instead  of  going  and  throwing 
away  this — my  little  all — in  a  gambling- 
house,  I  might  double  it,  I  might  triple  it, 
perhaps,  by  honest  industry.  If  Julie  truly 
loves  me,  she  will  wait  a  few  years,  she  will 
remain  true  to  me  until  I  am  able  to  marry 
her.  Commerce  sometimes  yields  greater 


224  CR01SILLES. 

profits  than  one  thinks  ;  examples  are  not 
wanting  in  this  world  of  wealth  gained  with 
astonishing  rapidity  in  this  way  on  the  chang- 
ing waves — why  should  Providence  not  .bless 
an  endeavor  made  for  a  purpose  so  laudable, 
so  worthy  of  His  assistance  ?  Among  these 
merchants  who  have  accumulated  so  much 
and  who  send  their  vessels  to  the  ends  of  the 
world,  more  than  one  has  begun  with  a 
smaller  sum  than  I  have  now.  They  have 
prospered  with  the  help  of  God  ;  why  should 
I  not  prosper  in  my  turn  ?  It  seems  to  me  as 
though  a  good  wind  were  filling  these  sails, 
and  this  vessel  inspires  confidence.  Come  ! 
the  die  is  cast ;  I  will  speak  to  the  captain, 
who  seems  to  be  a  good  fellow  ;  I  will  then 
write  to  Julie,  and  set  out  to  become  a  clever 
and  successful  trader." 

The  greatest  danger  incurred  by  those 
who  are  habitually  but  half  crazy,  is  that  of 
becoming,  at  times,  altogether  so.  The  poor 
fellow,  without  further  deliberation,  put  his 
whim  into  execution.  To  find  goods  to  buy, 
when  one  has  money  and  knows  nothing 
about  the  goods,  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world.  The  captain,  to  oblige  Croisilles, 
took  him  to  one  of  his  friends,  a  manufac- 
turer, who  sold  him  as  much  cloth  and  silk 
as  he  could  pay  for.  The  whole  of  it,  loaded 


CROISILLES.  225 

upon  a  cart,  was  promptly  taken  on  board. 
Croisilles,  delighted  and  full  of  hope,  had 
himself  written  in  large  letters  his  name 
upon  the  bales.  He  watched  them  being  put 
on  board  with  inexpressible  joy  ;  the  hour  of 
departure  soon  came,  and  the  vessel  weighed 
anchor. 


VI. 


I  need  not  say  that,  in  this  transaction, 
Croisilles  had  kept  no  money  in  hand.  His 
house  was  sold  ;  and  there  remained  to  him, 
for  his  sole  fortune,  the  clothes  he  had  on 
his  back  ; — no  home,  and  not  a  sou.  With 
the  best  will  possible,  Jean  could  not  sup- 
pose that  his  master  was  reduced  to  such  an 
extremity  ;  Croisilles  was  not  too  proud,  but 
too  thoughtless  to  tell  him  of  it.  So  he  deter- 
mined to  sleep  under  the  starry  vault,  and  as' 
for  his  meals,  he  made  the  following  calcula- 
tion :  he  presumed  that  the  vessel  which 
bore  his  fortune  would  be  six  months  before 
coming  back  to  Havre  ;  Croisilles,  therefore, 
not  without  regret,  sold  a  gold  watch  his 
father  had  given  him,  and  which  he  had  for- 
tunately kept ;  he  got  thirty-six  livres  for  it. 
That  was  sufficient  to  live  on  for  about  six 


226  CROISILLES. 

months,  at  the  rate  of  four  sous  a  day.  He 
did  not  doubt  that  it  would  be  enough,  and, 
reassured  for  the  present,  he  wrote  to  Made- 
moiselle Godeau  to  inform  her  of  what  he 
had  done.  He  was  very  careful  in  his  letter 
not  to  speak  of  his  .distress  ;  he  announced 
to  her,  on  the  contrary,  that  he  had  under- 
taken a  magnificent  commercial  enterprise,  of 
the  speedy  and  fortunate  issue  of  which  there 
could  be  no  doubt  ;  he  explained  to  her  that 
La  Fleurette,  a  merchant-vessel  of  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  tons,  was  carrying  to  the  Bal- 
tic his  cloths  and  his  silks,  and  implored  her 
to  remain  faithful  to  him  for  a  year,  reserving 
to  himself  the  right  of  asking,  later  on,  for  a 
further  delay,  while,  for  his  part,  he  swore 
eternal  love  to  her. 

When  Mademoiselle  Godeau  received  this 
letter,  she  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  and  had 
in  her  hand,  using  it  as  a  screen,  one  of 
those  bulletins  which  are  printed  in  seaports, 
announcing  the  arrival  and  departure  of 
vessels,  and  which  also  report  disasters  at 
sea.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her,  as  one  can 
well  imagine,  to  take  an  interest  in  this  sort 
of  thing;  she  had  in  fact  never  glanced  at 
any  of  these  sheets.  The  perusal  of  Croi- 
silles'  letter  prompted  her  to  read  the  bulle- 
tin she  had  been  holding  in  her  hand  ;  the 


CROISILLES.  227 

first  word  that  caught  her  eye  was  no  other 
than  the  name  of  La  Fleurette. — The  vessel 
had  been  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  France,  on 
the  very  night  following  its  departure.  The 
crew  had  barely  escaped,  but  all  the  cargo 
was  lost. 

Mademoiselle  Godeau,  at  this  news,  no 
longer  remembered  that  Croisilles  had  made 
to  her  an  avowal  of  his  poverty  ;  she  was  as 
heartbroken  as  though  a  million  had  been  at 
stake.  In  an  instant,  the  horrors  of  the  tem- 
pest, the  fury  of  the  winds,  the  cries  of  the 
drowning,  the  ruin  of  the  man  who  loved 
her,  presented  themselves  to  her  mind  like  a 
scene  in  a  romance.  The  bulletin  and  the 
letter  fell  from  her  hands.  She  rose  in  great 
agitation,  and,  with  heaving  breast  and  eyes 
brimming  with  tears,  paced  up  and  down,  de- 
termined to  act,  and  asking  herself  how  she 
should  act. 

There  is  one  thing  that  must  be  said  in 
justice  to  love  ;  it  is  that  the  stronger,  the 
clearer,  the  simpler  the  considerations  op- 
posed to  it,  in  a  word,  the  less  common- 
sense  there  is  in  the  matter,  the  wilder  does 
the  passion  become  and  the  more  does  the 
lover  love.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  under  heaven,  this  irrationality  of  the 
heart.  We  should  not  be  worth  much  with- 


228  CROISILLES. 

out  it.  After  having  walked  about  the  room 
(without  forgetting  either  her  dear  fan  or  the 
passing  glance  at  the  mirror),  Julie  allowed 
herself  to  sink  once  more  upon  her  lounge. 
Whoever  had  seen  her  at  this  moment  would 
have  looked  upon  a  lovely  sight;  her  eyes 
sparkled,  her  cheeks  were  on  fire  ;  she 
sighed  deeply,  and  murmured  in  a  delicious 
transport  of  joy  and  pain  : 

"  Poor  fellow  !  He  has  ruined  himself  for 
me  !  " 

Independently  of  the  fortune  which  she 
could  expect  from  her  father,  Mademoiselle 
Godeau  had  in  her  own  right  the  property 
her  mother  had  left  her.  She  had  never 
thought  of  it.  At  this  moment,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  remembered  that  she 
could  dispose  of  five  hundred  thousand 
francs.  This  thought  brought  a  smile  to  her 
lips  ;  a  project,  strange,  bold,  wholly  femi- 
nine, almost  as  mad  as  Croisilles  himself, 
entered  her  head  ; — she  weighed  the  idea 
in  her  mind  for  some  time,  then  decided  to 
act  upon  it  at  once. 

She  began  by  inquiring  whether  Croisilles 
had  any  relatives  or  friends  ;  the  maid  was 
sent  out  in  all  directions  to  find  out.  Hav- 
ing made  minute  inquiries  in  all  quarters,. 
she  discovered,  on  the  fourth  floor  of  an  old 


CROISILl.ES.  229 

rickety  house,  a  half-crippled  aunt,  who  never 
stirred  from  her  arm-chair,  and  had  not 
been  out  for  four  or  five  years.  This  poor 
woman,  very  old,  seemed  to  have  been  left 
in  the  world  expressly  as  a  specimen  of 
human  misery.  Blind,  gouty,  almost  deaf, 
she  lived  alone  in  a  garret  ;  but  a  gayety, 
stronger  than  misfortune  and  illness,  sus- 
tained her  at  eighty  years  of  age,  and  made 
her  still  love  life.  Her  neighbors  never 
passed  her  door  without  going  in  to  see  her, 
and  the  antiquated  tunes  she  hummed  en- 
livened all  the  girls  of  the  neighborhood.  She 
possessed  a  little  annuity  which  sufficed  to 
maintain  her ;  as  long  as  day  lasted,  she 
knitted.  She  did  not  know  what  had  hap- 
pened since  the  death  of  Louis  XIV. 

It  was  to  this  worthy  person  that  Julie  had 
herself  privately  conducted.  She  donned  for 
the  occasion  all  her  finery  ;  feathers,  laces, 
ribbons,  diamonds,  nothing  was  spared.  She 
wanted  to  be  fascinating  ;  but  the  real  secret 
of  her  beauty,  in  this  case,  was  the  whim  that 
was  carrying  her  away.  She  went  up  the 
steep,  dark  staircase  which  led  to  the  good 
lady's  chamber,  and,  after  the  most  graceful 
bow,  spoke  somewhat  as  follows  : 

"  You  have,  madame,  a  nephew,  called 
Croisilles,  who  loves  me  and  has  asked  for 


230  CKOISILLKS. 

my  hand  ;  I  love  him  too  and  wish  to  marry 
him  ;  but  my  father,  Monsieur  Godeau,  fer- 
mier-gtn&ral  of  this  town,  refuses  his  con- 
sent, because  your  nephew  is  not  rich.  I 
would  not,  for  the  world,  give  occasion  to 
scandal,  nor  cause  trouble  to  anybody ;  I 
would  therefore  never  think  of  disposing  of 
myself  without  the  consent  of  my  family.  I 
come  to  ask  you  a  favor,  which  I  beseech  you 
to  grant  me.  You  must  come  yourself  and 
propose  this  marriage  to  my  father.  I  have, 
thank  God,  a  little  fortune  which  is  quite  at 
your  disposal  ;  you  may  take  possessibn, 
whenever  you  see  fit,  of  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  at  my  notary's.  You  will  say 
that  this  sum  belongs  to  your  nephew,  which 
in  fact  it  does.  It  is  not  a  present  that  I  am 
making  him,  it  is  a  debt  which  I  am  paying, 
for  I  am  the  cause  of  the  ruin  of  Croisilles, 
and  it  is  but  just  that  I  should  repair  it.  My 
father  will  not  easily  give  in  ;  you  will  be 
obliged  to  insist  and  you  must  have  a  little 
courage  ;  I,  for  my  part,  will  not  fail.  As 
nobody  on  earth  excepting  myself  has  any 
right  to  the  sum  of  which  I  am  speaking  to 
you,  nobody  will  ever  know  in  what  way  this 
amount  will  have  passed  into  your  hands. 
You  are  not  very  rich  yourself,  I  know,  and 
you  may  fear  that  people  will  be  astonished 


CROISILLES.  231 

to  see  you  thus  endowing  your  nephew  ;  but 
remember  that  my  father  does  not  know  you, 
that  you  show  yourself  very  little  in  town,  and 
that,  consequently,  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to 
pretend  that  you  have  just  arrived  from  some 
journey.  This  step  will  doubtless  be  some 
exertion  to  you  ;  you  will  have  to  leave  your 
arm-chair  and  take  a  little  trouble  ;  but  you 
will  make  two  people  happy,  madame,  and  if 
you  have  ever  known  love,  I  hope  you  will 
not  refuse  me." 

The  old  lady,  during  this  discourse,  had 
been  in  turn  surprised,  anxious,  touched,  and 
delighted.  The  last  words  persuaded  her. 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  she  repeated  several 
times,  "  I  know  what  it  is, — I  know  what 
it  is." 

As  she  said  this  she  made  an  effort  to  rise; 
her  feeble  limbs  could  barely  support  her  ; 
Julie  quickly  advanced  and  put  out  her  hand 
to  help  her  ;  by  an  almost  involuntary  move- 
ment they  found  themselves,  in  an  instant,  in 
each  other's  arms.  A  treaty  was  at  once  con- 
cluded ;  a  warm  kiss  sealed  it  in  advance, 
and  the  necessary  and  confidential  consulta- 
tion followed  without  further  trouble. 

All  the  explanations  having  been  made,  the 
good  lady  drew  from  her  wardrobe  a  vener- 
able gown  of  taffeta,  which  had  been  her  wed- 


232  CROISILLES. 

ding-dress.  This  antique  piece  of  property 
was  not  less  than  fifty  years  old  ;  but  not  a 
spot,  not  a  grain  of  dust  had  disfigured  it  ; 
Julie  was  in  ecstasies  over  it.  A  coach  was 
sent  for,  the  handsomest  in  the  town.  The 
good  lady  prepared  the  speech  she  was  going 
to  make  to  Monsieur  Godeau  ;  Julie  tried  to 
teach  her  how  she  was  to  touch  the  heart  of 
her  father,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  confess 
that  love  of  rank  was  his  vulnerable  point. 
,  "  If  you  could  imagine,"  said  she,  "  a 
means  of  flattering  this  weakness,  you  will 
have  won  our  cause." 

The  good  lady  pondered  deeply,  finished 
her  toilet  without  another  word,  clasped  the 
hands  of  her  future  niece,  and  entered  the 
carriage.  She  soon  arrived  at  the  Godeau 
mansion  ;  there,  she  braced  herself  up  so  gal- 
lantly for  her  entrance  that  she  seemed  ten 
years  younger.  She  majestically  crossed  the 
drawing-room  where  Julie's  bouquet  had  fall- 
en, and,  when  the  door  of  the  boudoir  opened, 
said  in  a  firm  voice  to  the  lackey  who  pre- 
ceded her  : 

"  Announce  the  dowager  Baroness  de 
Croisilles." 

These  words  settled  the  happiness  of  the 
two  lovers.  Monsieur  Godeau  was  bewil- 
dered by  them.  Although  five  hundred 


CKOISILLES.  233 

thousand  francs  seemed  little  to  him,  he 
consented  to  everything,  in  order  to  make  his 
daughter  a  baroness,  and  such  she  became  ; 
— who  would  dare  contest  her  title  ?  For  my 
part,  I  think  she  had  thoroughly  earned  it. 


VALENTIN'S   WAGER. 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

VAN  BUCK,  a  Merchant. 

VALENTIN  VAN  BUCK,  his  Nephew. 

THE  BARONESS  DE  MANTES. 

C6ciLE,  her  daughter. 

AN  ABBE\ 

A  DANCING  MASTER. 

AN  INNKEEPER. 

A  WAITER. 

The  scene  is  laid,  in  the  First  Act,  in  Paris  ; 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  piece,  on  the  Baro- 
ness' estate. 


235 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 


ACT  I.,  SCENE  I.— VALENTIN'S  Room. 
VAN  BUCK.     VALENTIN., 

VAN  BUCK.  Nephew,  I  wish  you  good- 
morning. 

VALENTIN.     Uncle,  your  obedient  servant. 

VAN  B.  Keep  your  seat;  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you. 

VAL.  Sit  you  down  then,  I  have  something 
to  hear  from  you  ;  kindly  occupy  that  easy- 
chair,  and  put  your  hat  down  there. 

VAN  B.  Nephew,  the  most  indefatigable 
patience  and  the  most  robust  obstinacy  must, 
the  one  and  the  other,  come  to  an  end  sooner 
or  later.  The  thing  which  we  tolerate  be- 
comes intolerable,  what  is  not  corrected  in- 
corrigible ;  and  he  who  has,  a  score  of  times, 
held  out  a  pole  to  save  a  madman  bent  on 
drowning  himself  may  one  day  be  forced  to 
choose  between  abandoning  his  efforts  and 
perishing  with  their  object. 

237 


238  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

VAL.  Now  that  is  what  I  call  an  exordium. 
Uncle,  your  metaphors  rise  betimes  in  the 
morning. 

VAN  B.  Sir  !  Have  the  goodness  to  hold 
your  tongue,  and  do  not  presume  to  trifle 
with  me.  In  vain  have  I  endeavored,  these 
three  years  past,  to  make  an  impression  upon 
you  with  the  best  advice  my  experience  could 
command.  A  recklessness,  a  blind  folly, 
good  resolutions  only  made  to  be  broken,  a 
cursed  weakness,  all  that  I  could  do,  or  can 
still — But,  by  my  beard,  I  will  do  no  more  ! 
Whither  are  you  dragging  me  after  you  ? 
You  are  as  pig-headed — 

VAL.  Uncle  Van  Buck,  you  are  losing 
your  temper. 

VAN  B.  Do  not  interrupt  me,  sir.  You 
have  displayed  as  much  obstinacy  as  I  have 
credulity  and  indulgence.  Could  any  one 
believe, — I  ask  you, — could  any  one  believe 
that  a  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  would 
spend  his  life  as  you  do  ?  Of  what  use  have 
my  remonstrances  been  ?  When  do  you  in- 
tend to  enter  a  profession  ?  You  are  a 
poor  man,  for,  after  all  is  said  and  done,  you 
have  no  fortune  but  mine  ;  but,  let  me  tell 
you,  I  am  not  at  the  point  of  death,  and  my 
digestion  is  still  sound.  What  do  you  propose 
doing  between  this  and  my  decease  ? 


VALENTIN 'S  W A GER.  239 

VAL.  Uncle  Van  Buck,  you  have  lost  your 
temper,  and  you  are  going  to  forget  your- 
self. 

VAN  B.  No,  sir ;  I  know  what  I  am  doing. 
If  I  am  the  only  member  of  the  family  who 
has  gone  into  trade,  it  is  only  thanks  to  me — • 
and  don't  forget  that — that  the  ruins  of  a 
shattered  fortune  have  been  repaired.  It 
well  becomes  you  to  smile  when  I  speak.  If 
I  had  not  sold  ginghams  at  Antwerp  you  and 
your  flowered  dressing-gown  would  now  be 
in  the  poor-house.  But,  thank  God,  your  vile 
bouillotte — 

VAL.  Uncle  Van  Buck,  there  you  descend 
to  the  trivial,  you  are  changing  your  key, 
forgetting  yourself  ; — your  exordium  was  so 
much  finer — 

VAN  B.  Sacrebleu  !  Do  you  mock  me,  sir  ? 
Am  I  of  no  value  except  to  honor  your 
drafts  ?  I  had  one  of  them  this  morning, — 
sixty  louis  !  Are  you  laughing  at  us  all  ?  A 
pretty  thing  it  is  for  you  to  be  doing  "  the 
fashionable  " — the  devil  take  these  English 
words — when  you  can't  pay  your  tailor  !  It 
is  one  thing  to  dismount  from  a  fine  horse  to 
walk  into  the  midst  of  a  grand  rich  family, 
and  quite  another  thing  to  get  out  of  a  hack 
carriage  and  climb  up  three  dingy  flights  of 
stairs.  When  you  return  from  the  ball,  in 


240  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

your  satin  waistcoat,  you  must  needs  call 
for  the  porter  to  bring  your  candle,  and  he 
kicks  when  he  doesn't  get  his  New  Year's 
gift.  God  only  knows  whether  you  give  it 
him  every  year  !  You  live  among  people  who 
are  richer  than  yourself,  and  learn  to  look 
down  on  all  of  us, — you  wear  your  beard  in 
a  point  and  your  hair  hanging  down  on  your 
shoulders,  as  if  you  had  not  the  price  of  a 
ribbon  to  tie  it  in  a  queue.  You  scribble  for 
the  newspapers, — you  are  capable  of  turning 
a  disciple  of  Saint-Simon  when  you  are  left 
without  a  sou  in  the  world  or  a  shirt  to  your 
back, — and  that  is  what  it  will  come  to,  I 
answer  for  it.  Bah  !  A  letter-writer  at  the 
street-corner  is  more  respectable  than  you. 
I  shall  end  by  cutting  you  off,  and  you  will 
have  no  shelter  left  but  a  garret. 

VAL.  Uncle  Van  Buck,  I  respect  and  love 
you.  Do  me  the  favor  to  listen  to  me.  You 
have  just  honored  my  last  draft.  When  you 
came  here  I  was  at  the  window  and  watched 
your  arrival  ;  you  were  composing  a  sermon 
exactly  as  long  as  from  here  to  your  house. 
But  let  me  beg  of  you  to  spare  your  breath. 
As  to  what  you  think  I  am  fully  aware  ;  as 
for  what  you  do  you  have  my  thanks.  That 
I  am  in  debt  and  am  good  for  nothing  is 
possible  ; — what  do  you  mean  to  do  about 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  241 

it  ?  You  have  an  income  of  sixty  thousand 
francs — 

VAN  B.     Fifty  ! 

VAL.  Sixty,  uncle.  You  have  no  children, 
and  are  full  of  kindness  towards  me.  If  I 
profit  by  it  where  is  the  harm  ?  With  a  good 
sixty  thousand  francs  per  annum — 

VAN  B.  Fifty !  Fifty ! — Not  a  penny 
more  ! 

VAL.     Sixty  :  you  told  me  so  yourself. 

VAN  B.  Never  !  Where  did  you  get  the 
idea  ? 

VAL.  Let  us  say  fifty,  then.  You  are  still 
young  and  hearty  and  enjoy  life.  Do  you 
think  that  troubles  me,  or  that  I  am  longing 
for  your  fortune  ?  I  am  sure  you  do  me  no 
such  wrong  ;  you  know  that  a  worthless  head 
is  not  always  the  sign  of  a  worthless'  heart. 
You  quarrel  with  my  dressing-gown  ; — surely 
you  have  worn  many  a  dressing-gown  in  your 
time  ?  My  pointed  beard  is  not  a  mark  of 
Saint-Simonianism,  I  have  too  much  respect 
for  the  rights  of  inheritance.  You  complain 
of  my  waistcoat  ; — would  you  like  me  to  go 
out  in  my  shirt  and  trousers  ?  You  tell  me 
that  I  am  poor  and  my  friends  are  not  ; — so 
much  the  better  for  them,  it  is  no  fault  of 
mine.  You  imagine  that  they  spoil  me  and 
that  their  example  teaches  me  scorn, — I  am 


242  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

only  scornful  of  what  bothers  me,  and,  as 
you  pay  my  debts,  you  know  that  I  borrow 
from  no  one  else.  You  reproach  me  with 
riding  in  cabs  ; — it  is  only  because  I  have  no 
carriage  of  my  own.  As  for  my  taking  a 
candle  from  the  porter  when  I  come  home, 
it  is  only  to  avoid  going  upstairs  in  the  dark, 
— what  is  the  use  of  breaking  one's  neck  ? 
You  wish  to  see  me  occupied  ; — get  me  ap- 
pointed prime-minister  and  you  shall  see  how 
I  will  make  my  way  in  the  world.  But  what 
can  I  learn  as  supernumerary  clerk  in  a  little 
law-office,  except  that  all  is  vanity  ?  You  say 
I  play  at  bouillotte; — that  is  because  I  win — 
when  I  have  a  good  hand, — -and,  I  assure 
you,  I  no  sooner  lose  than  I  repent  of  my 
folly.  It  would  be  quite  a  different  thing, 
you  say,  if  I  got  off  a  fine  horse  to  enter  a 
fine  hdtel ; — I  believe  you  ! — It  is  very  easy 
to  talk  like  that.  You,  moreover,  express 
yourself  as  being  proud  of  having  sold 
gingham.  Would  to  God  that  I  sold  ging- 
ham !  It  would  show  that  I  was  able  to  buy 
it.  As  for  my  noble  descent,  believe  me,  it 
is  as  dear  to  me  as  it  is  to  you  ;  but  it  is 
precisely  the  reason  why  I  don't  go  in  har- 
ness, any  more  than  thoroughbred  horses  do. 
By  the  way,  uncle,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  you 
haven't  breakfasted  yet.  You  have  been  fast- 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  243 

ing  over  that  confounded  draft  ;    let  us  eat  it 

up  together.     I  will  ring  for  some  chocolate. 

\He  rings,     Breakfast  is  brought  in. 

VAN  B.  What  a  breakfast !  Devil  take  it ! 
You  live  like  a  prince. 

VAL.  Well,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  When  a 
man  is  dying  of  hunger  he  must  try  to  miti- 
gate the  agony. 

[  They  sit  down  to  breakfast. 

VAN  B.  I  am  sure,  now,  that  because  I 
sit  down  here  you  fancy  I  forgive  you. 

VAL.  I  ?  Not  at  all.  What  annoys  me 
is  that,  when  you  are  irritated,  certain  shop- 
counter  expressions  escape  you  in  spite  of 
yourself.  Certainly,  without  knowing  it,  you 
fall  short  of  that  cream  of  politeness  which 
is  so  peculiarly  your  characteristic.  But 
when  there  are  any  third  persons  present,  you 
understand,  /  won't  tell. 

VAN  B.  There,  that  will  do.  I  tell  you 
nothing  of  the  kind  escapes  me.  But  we 
will  say  no  more  of  that.  I  want  to  talk  of 
something  else.  You  must  think  of  getting 
married. 

VAL.  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! — What  did 
you  say  ? 

VAN  B.  Give  me  some  wine.  I  say  you 
are  getting  old  enough  now  to  think  of 
marrying. 


244  VALENTIN'S   WAGt-'K. 

VAL.  But,  uncle,  what  have  I  done  to 
you  ? 

VAN  B.  Drafts — But,  even  if  you  had 
done  nothing  to  me,  what  is  there  so  terrific 
in  marriage  ?  Look  here,  let  us  talk  seri- 
ously. A  pitiable  object  you  would  be,  if  I 
were  to  hand  over  a  pretty,  accomplished 
girl  to  you  this  evening,  with  fifty  thousand 
crowns  down,  to  brighten  you  up  when  you 
awake  in  the  morning  !  You  are  in  debt, — 
I  will  pay  your  debts.  Once  married,  you 
will  settle  down.  Mile,  de  Mantes  has  all  the 
qualities  necessary — 

VAL.     Mile,  de  Mantes  ?    You  are  joking  ! 

VAN  B.  Since  her  name  has  escaped  me, 
I  am  not  joking.  She  is  the  lady  I  allude  to, 
and,  if  you  like — 

VAL.  And  if  she  likes.  As  the  song 
says, — 

"  I  know  very  well  it  but  rests  with  me 
To  marry  her,  if  my  bride  she  will  be." 

VAN  B.  No,  it  depends  on  you.  You  are 
accepted,  she  likes  you. 

VAL.  But  I  have  never  seen  her  in  my 
life  ! 

VAN  B.  Never  mind  !  I  tell  you  she  likes 
you. 

VAL.     Really  ? 

VAN  B.     I  give  you  my  word. 


VALENTIN'S   WAGER.  245 

VAL.     Well  then.  I  don't  like  her. 

VAN  B.     Why  ? 

VAL.    For  the  same  reason  that  she  likes  me. 

VAN  B.  There  is  no  sense  in  saying  you 
don't  like  a  person  whom  you  don't  know. 

VAL.  Just  as  much  as  there  is  in  saying 
you  do.  Please  say  no  more  about  it. 

VAN.  B.  But,  my  friend,  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  (give  me  some  wine)  you  must 
come  to  an  end — 

VAL.  To  be  sure  ;  a  man  must  die  once 
in  his  life. 

VAN  B.  I  mean  that  you  must  make  up 
your  mind  to  stop  this  fool's  life.  What  is 
to  become  of  you  ?  I  warn  you,  some  day  I 
shall  leave  you  in  the  lurch,  in  spite  of 
myself.  I  have  no  idea  of  being  ruined  by 
you,  and  even  if  you  wish  to  be  my  heir,  you 
must  be  able  to  wait.  Your  marrying  would 
cost  me  money,  but  then  it  would  be  once 
for  all,  and  less  than  your  follies  will  cost  me 
in  the  long  run.  And  then,  I  prefer  to  be 
rid  of  you.  Consider  what  I  have  said  ; — 
will  you  have  a  pretty  wife,  your  debts  paid, 
and  an  easy  existence  ? 

VAL.  Since  you  are  bent  upon  it,  uncle, 
and  are  talking  seriously,  I  am  going  to 
answer  you  seriously.  Take  some  pate  and 
listen  to  me. 


246  VALENTIN'S   WAGER. 

VAN  B.     Well,  let  us  hear  your  opinion. 

VAL.  Without  wishing  to  go  too  far  back, 
or  weary  you  with  preambles,  I  will  begin 
with  the  ancients.  Need  I  remind  you  of 
the  way  in  which  a  man  was  served  who 
had  in  nowise  merited  such  treatment,  who, 
through  all  his  life,  was  of  a  gentle  nature, — 
even  so  much  so  as  to  receive  once  more 
into  his  arms,  after  her  transgression,  her 
who  had  so  outrageously  betrayed  him  ? 
The  brother,  too,  of  a  powerful  monarch,  and, 
very  improperly,  crowned — 

VAN  B.  What  the  devil  are  you  talking 
about  ? 

VAL.     About  Menelaus,  uncle. 

VAN  B.  The  devil  take  you, — and  me 
too  !  I  am  a  great  fool  to  listen  to  you. 

VAL.  Why  ?  It  appears  to  me  very 
simple — 

VAN  B.  Infernal,  crack-brained  scamp  ! 
It  is  impossible  to  make  you  utter  one  word 
of  sense.  \He  rises.']  Come,  I  have  had 
enough  of  this  !  Young  men  respect  noth- 
ing nowadays. 

VAL.  Uncle  Van  Buck,  you  are  going  to 
lose  your  temper. 

VAN  B.  No,  sir ;  but  it  is  really  quite 
preposterous.  Is  it  to  be  expected  that  a 
man  of  my  age  should  submit  to  be  made  a 


VALENTIN'S   WAGER.  247 

plaything  of  by  a  boy  ?  Do  you  take  me  for 
one  of  your  comrades,  and  must  I  repeat  to 
you — 

VAL.  Why,  uncle,  is  it  possible  you  have 
never  read  Homer  ? 

VAN  B.  (sitting  down  again.)  Well,  sup- 
pose I  have  ? 

VAL.  You  talk  to  me  of  marriage  ; — I 
simply  cite  the  example  of  antiquity's  most 
famous  husband. 

VAN  B.  I  don't  care  to  hear  your  pro- 
verbs. Will  you  answer  me  seriously  ? 

VAL.  Be  it  so.  Let  us  deal  plainly.  But 
I  shall  never  make  you  understand  me  as 
long  as  you  insist  on  interrupting.  I  have 
not  quoted  Menelaus  to  make  a  parade  of 
my  learning,  but  to  avoid  mentioning  a  great 
many  respectable  people  of  our  own  times. 
Must  I  explain  myself  without  reserve  ? 

VAN  B.     Yes,  on  the  spot,  or  I  am  going. 

VAL.  I  was  sixteen  years  old,  just  leaving 
college,  when,  for  the  first  time,  a  fair  lady 
of  our  acquaintance  honored  me  with  her 
distinguished  favor.  At  that  age,  can  one 
tell  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong  ? 
One  evening  I  was  at  this  lady's  house,  sit- 
ting by  the  fire  ;  her  husband  was  present. 
Suddenly  he  rose  and  said  he  was  going  out. 
Upon  this,  there  passed  between  my  beauty 


24«  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

and  me  a  rapid  glance,  which  made  my  heart 
leap.  We  were  to  be  alone  together  ?  I 
turned  round  and  saw  the  poor  man  putting 
on  his  gloves.  They  were  greenish  buckskin 
gloves,  too  large  for  him,  .and  rather  worn 
at  the  thumbs.  While  he  was  plunging 
his  hands  into  them,  standing  there  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  an  imperceptible  smile 
played  over  the  corners  of  his  wife's  lips,  and 
faintly  marked,  as  it  were  a  shadow,  the  two 
dimples  on  her  cheeks.  Only  a  lover's  eye 
sees  smiles  like  that,  for  they  are  to  be  felt 
rather  than  seen.  That  one  went  straight 
into  my  soul  ;  I  gobbled  it  up  like  a  sugar- 
plum. But,  strangely  enough,  the  remem- 
brance of  that  delightful  moment  became 
inextricably  linked  with  that  of  two  fat  red 
hands  flapping  about  .inside  a  pair  of  green- 
ish gloves,  and  those  hands,  in  their  confid- 
ing wrigglings,  had  something  so  indefinably 
piteous  that  whenever  I  think  of  them,  that 
feminine  smile  begins  to  play  over  the  corner 
of  my  lips  ;  and  I  have  sworn  that  no  woman 
on  earth  shall  ever  glove  me  with  those 
gloves. 

VAN  B.  That  is  to  say  that,  as  an  avowed 
libertine,  you  disbelieve  in  the  virtue  of 
women,  and  fear  that  others  will  do  to  you 
as  you  have  done  to  others. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  249 

VAL.  You  have  said  it  :  I  fear  the  devil, 
and  do  not  wish  to  be  gloved. 

VAN  B.     Bah  !     A  young  man's  notion  ! 

VAL.  As  you  please.  It  is  my  notion.  In 
thirty  years'  time  it  will  be  an  old  man's 
notion,  for  I  shall  never  marry. 

VAN  B.  Do  you  pretend  that  all  wives  are 
false  and  all  husbands  deceived  ? 

VAL.  I  pretend  nothing, — know  nothing 
about  it.  I  pretend,  when  I  go  into  the  streets, 
not  to  throw  myself  under  the  wheels  of  the 
carriages  ;  when  I  dine,  not  to  eat  coal-fish  ; 
when  I  am  thirsty,  not  to  drink  out  of  a 
broken  glass  ;  and  when  I  see  a  woman,  not 
to  marry  her  ;  and  yet  I  am  not  sure  but  that 
I  may  be  run  over,  or  choked,  or  have  my 
mouth  cut,  or — 

VAN  B.  For  shame  !  Mile,  de  Mantes  is 
virtuous  and  well  brought  up  ;  she  is  a  good 
little  girl. 

VAL.  God  forbid  that  I  should  question 
it  !  No  doubt  she  is  the  best  maiden  in  the 
world.  You  say  she  is  well  brought  up. 
What  education  has  she  received  ?  Is  she 
taken  to  bails,  theatres,  horse-races  ?  Does 
she  go  out  alone  in  a  cab  at  noon  to  return 
home  at  six  ?  Has  she  a  clever  maid  and  a 
secret  staircase  ?  Has  she  seen  "La  Tour  de 
Nesle,"  and  does  she  read  the  novels  of  M. 


250  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

de  Balzac  ?  Do  they  take  her,  after  a  good 
dinner,  on  summer  evenings,  when  the  wind 
is  in  the  south,  to  see  ten  or  twelve  broad- 
shouldered  athletes  performing  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  ?  Has  she  for  an  instructor  a  big 
curly-headed  fellow,  with  a  fine  leg,  who 
waltzes  beautifully  and  squeezes  her  fingers 
after  she  has  been  drinking  punch  ?  Does 
she  receive  visitors  alone  in  the  afternoon, 
sitting  on  a  soft  springy  sofa  in  the  dim 
light  of  pink  window-blinds  ?  Has  she  a 
little  gilded  knob  by  her  door,  which  she  can 
touch  with  her  little  finger  as  she  turns  her 
head  aside  and  a  thick  hanging  falls  softly 
and  deadens  every  sound  ?  Does  she  put  her 
glove  into  her  glass  when  the  champagne 
comes  round  ?  Does  she  make  a  pretence  of 
going  to  the  Opera  ball  only  to  be  lost  sight 
of  for  fifteen  minutes,  drop  in  at  Musard's, 
and  come  home  to  yawn?  Have  they  taught 
her  to  turn  up  the  whites  of  her  eyes  like 
an  amorous  dove,  when  Rubini  is  singing  ? 
Does  she  pass  the  summer  in  the  country 
with  a  lady  of  great  experience,  in  whom  her 
family  have  implicit  confidence,  who,  in  the 
evening,  leaves  her  at  the  piano  and  goes  out 
to  stroll  under  the  hedges,  whispering  with  a 
hussar?  Does  she  go  to  watering-places? 
Does  she  suffer  from  headaches  ? 


VALENTIN'S  IV ACER.  251 

VAN  B.  In  God's  name,  what  are  you 
talking  about  ? 

VAL.  Why,  if  she  knows  nothing  of  all 
this,  they  have  not  taught  her  much  ;  for,  as 
soon  as  she  becomes  a  wife,  she  will  learn  it 
all,  and  then, — who  can  foresee —  ? 

VAN  B.  You  have  strange  ideas  on  the 
education  of  women  ;  would  you  like  to  see 
them  carried  out  ? 

VAL.  No,  but  I  would  like  a  young  girl  to 
be  a  herb  in  the  woods,  not  a  plant  in  a  jardin- 
iere. Come,  uncle,  let  us  go  to  the  Tuileries, 
and  stop  talking  of  this. 

VAN  B.     You  refuse  Mile,  de  Mantes  ? 

VAL.  No  more  than  Mademoiselle  any  one 
else, — neither  more  nor  less. 

VAN  B.  You  will  make  me  swear  ;  you  are 
incorrigible.  I  had  the  fairest  hopes, — the 
girl  will  be  rich  some  day.  You  will  ruin  me 
and  go  to  the  devil, — that  will  be  the  end  of 
it. — What  is  it  ?  What  do  you  want  ? 

VAL.  To  give  you  your  hat  and  cane,  and 
go  out  with  you  for  an  airing,  if  you  have  no 
objection. 

VAN  B.  Much  I  care  for  an  airing  ! — See 
here,  if  you  refuse  to  marry,  I  disinherit  you. 

VAL.     You  disinherit  me,  uncle  ? 

VAN  B.  Yes,  by  Heaven !  I  take  my 
oath  to  it  !  I  will  be  as  obstinate  as  you, 


252  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

and   we  shall  see  which  of  us  will   give  in 
first. 

V  AL.  You  disinherit  me  in  writing,  or  only 
by  word  of  mouth  ? 

VAN  B.     In  writing,  insolent  puppy  ! 

VAL.  And  to  whom  will  you  leave  your 
fortune  ?  Are  you  going  to  found  a  prize  for 
virtue,  or  a  Latin  Grammar  competition  ? 

VAN  B.  Sooner  than  be  ruined  by  you,  I 
will  ruin  myself  on  my  own  account  and  at 
my  own  pleasure. 

VAL.  There  is  no  lottery  now,  there  are 
no  gambling-tables  ;  you  will  never  be  able 
to  drink  it  all. 

VAN  B.  I  will  leave  Paris,  return  to  Ant- 
werp, and  marry  myself,  if  necessary,  and  you 
shall  soon  have  six  cousins-german. 

VAL.  And  I  will  go  to  Algiers,  turn 
trumpeter  of  dragoons,  marry  an  Ethiopian, 
and  present  you  with  twenty-four  grand- 
nephews  as  black  as  ink  and  as  stupid  as 
owls. 

VAN  B.  Upon  my  life  ! — If  I  take  my 
cane — 

VAL.  Be  careful,  uncle,  or  you  may  break 
the  staff  of  your  old  age. 

VAN  B.  (embracing  him.']  Ah,  you  young 
wretch  !  You  impose  upon  me. 

VAL.     Now  listen  to  me.     I  have  a  horror 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  253 

of  marriage,  but,  to  oblige  you,  my  good 
uncie,  I  will  make  up  my  mind  to  anything. 
However  strange  what  I  am  going  to  propose 
to  you  may  seem,  promise  me  to  agree  to  it 
without  reserve,  and,  on  my  side,  I  pledge 
you  my  word. 

VAN  B.  What  are  you  driving  at  now  ? 
Be  quick. 

VAL.  Give  me  your  promise  first,  and  I 
will  speak  afterwards. 

VAN  B.     I   can't  promise   before   I  know. 

VAL.  You  must,  uncle  ;  it  is  indispensa- 
ble. 

VAN  B.     Very  well ; — I  promise. 

VAL.  If  you  wish  me  to  marry  Mile,  de 
Mantes,  there  is  only  one  way  ;  and  that  is, 
to  make  me  certain  that  she  will  never  put 
on  my  hands  those  gloves  we  were  talking 
about. 

VAN  B.     And  how  can  I  know  ? 

VAL.  In  a  case  like  this  there  are  proba- 
bilities which  may  easily  be  calculated.  Do 
you  grant  that  if  I  were  sure  her  virtue  could 
not  stand  a  week's  siege,  I  should  be  very 
foolish  to  marry  her — ? 

VAN  B.  Certainly.  But  what  appearance 
is  there — ? 

VAL.  I  ask  you  for  no  longer  delay.  The 
Baroness  has  never  seen  me,  neither  has  her 


254  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

daughter.  You  will  set  off  at  once  and  pay 
them  a  visit.  You  will  say  that,  to  your 
great  regret,  your  nephew  is  determined  to 
remain  single.  I  will  arrive  at  the  chateau 
half-an-hour  after  you,  and  you  will  take  care 
not  to  recognize  me.  That  is  all  I  ask  of 
you  ;  the  rest  shall  be  my  affair. 

VAN  B.  But  you  alarm  me.  What  do  you 
intend  to  do  ?  How  will  you  gain  admis- 
sion ? 

VAL.  That  is  my  business.  Don't  recog- 
nize me, — that  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you.  I 
shall  spend  a  week  at  the  chateau  ;  I  need 
a  change  of  air,  and  it  will  do  me  good.  You 
may  stay  longer  if  you  like. 

VAN  B.  Are  you  going  out  of  your  sen- 
ses ?  What  do  you  mean  to  attempt  ?  To 
overcome  a  young  girl's  principles  in  a  week  ? 
To  play  the  gallant  under  an  assumed  name  ? 
A  wonderful  novelty  indeed  !  Why,  that 
sort  of  folly  is  told  over  and  over  again  in 
every  fairy-tale.  Do  you  take  me  for  the 
regular  stage-uncle  ? 

VAL.  It  is  two  o'clock, — time  for  you  to 
go  home.  Come,  uncle,  come.  [  They  go  out. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  255 

SCENE  II.— AT  THE  CHATEAU. 

THE  BARONESS,  CECILE,  an  ABB£,  a  DANC- 
ING-MASTER. 

( The  BARONESS  is  seated,  chatting  with  the 
ABBE  and  working  at  some  embroidery.  C£- 
CILE  is  taking  her  dancing-lesson. 

BARONESS.  It  is  very  strange  I  cannot 
find  my  ball  of  blue  silk. 

ABB£.  You  had  it  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
ago  ;  it  must  have  rolled  away  somewhere. 

DANCING-MASTER.  If  Mademoiselle  will 
dance  the  poule  once  more  we  will  then  rest 
a  little. 

CECILE.  I  want  to  learn  the  valse  a  deux 
temps. 

D  M.  Madame  la  Baronne  objects  to  it. 
Be  so  good  as  to  turn  your  head  and  make 
the  oppositions  to  me. 

ABB£.  What  did  you  think,  Madame,  of 
that  last  sermon  ?  Did  you  hear  it  ? 

BAR.  It  is  green  and  pink  on  a  black 
ground,  like  the  little  chair  upstairs. 

ABBE.     I  beg  your  pardon  ? 

BAR.     I  beg  yours  ; — I  was  not  attending. 

ABBE.     I  thought  I  saw  you  there. 

BAR.     Where  ? 

ABB£.     At  Saint-Roch,  last  Sunday. 


256  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

BAR.,  Oh  yes !  Very  nice.  Everybody 
was  crying  ;  the  Baron  did  nothing  but  blow 
his  nose.  I  went  out  before  it  was  half  over 
because  my  neighbor  used  so  much  scent,  and 
I  ani  undergoing  homoeopathic  treatment. 

D-M.  Mademoiselle,  I  must  tell  you 
again,  you  do  not  make  the  oppositions.  Turn 
your  head  slightly,  and  put  your  arms  round 
me. 

C£ciLE.  But  I  must  look  before  me,  if  I 
don't  want  to  fall  down. 

D-M. — Tut,  tut,  tut !  This  is  dreadful  ! 
See  now  ; — can  anything  be  simpler  ?  Look 
at  me  ;  do  I  fall  ?  You  go  to  the  right,  you 
look  to  the  left  ; — you  go  to  the  left,  you 
look  to  the  right ;  nothing  can  be  more 
natural. 

BAR.  It  is  an  inconceivable  thing  how  I 
can  have  lost  that  blue  silk. 

CE'CILE.  Mamma,  why  don't  you  wish  me 
to  learn  the  valse  a  deux  temps  ? 

BAR.  Because  it  is  indecent. — Have  you 
read  Jocelyn  ? 

ABB£.  Yes,  Madame  ;  there  are  some  fine 
verses  in  it,  but  the  groundwork,  I  confess, — 

BAR.  The  ground  is  black,  so  is  the  whole 
piece.  It  is  to  be  mounted  in  ebony. 

CE'CILE.  But,  mamma,  Miss  Clary  waltzes, 
and  the  Mesdemoisellesde  Raimbaut  waltz  ! 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  257 

BAR.  Abbe,  I  am  sure  you  must  be  sitting 
on — Miss  Clary  ?  Miss  Clary  is  English, 
Mademoiselle. 

ABBE.     I,  Madame  ?     I  sit  on  Miss  Clary  ? 

BAR.  On  my  silk  ; — there  it  is ; — no,  that 
is  the  red.  Where  has  it  got  to  ? 

ABB£.  I  think  that  scene  with  the  Bishop 
very  fine  ;  there  certainly  is  genius  in  it, — 
great  power  and  facility., 

CECILE.  But,  mamma,  why  is  it  decent 
for  her  to  waltz  on  account  of  her  being 
English  ? 

BAR.  There  is  another  novel  I  have  been 
reading,  that  they  sent  me  from  Mongie's. 
I  forget  the  name  now,  and  I  forget  what  it 
was  about.  Have  you  read  it  ?  It  is  very 
well  written. 

ABBE\  Yes,  Madame.  I  think  there  is 
some  one  at  the  gate.  Are  you  expecting  a 
visitor  ? 

BAR.  Ah !  To  be  sure !  Cecile,  come 
here. 

D-M.  Mademoiselle,  Madame  la  Baronne 
wishes  to  speak  to  you.  • 

ABBE".  I  see  no  carriage.  There  are 
some  post-horses  going  out. 

C£ciLE  (coming  to  her  mother}.  Did  you 
call  me,  mamma? 

BAR.     No.      Oh,    yes  !      There   is   some- 


258  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

body  coming.  Stoop  down,  I  want  to 
whisper  in  your  ear. — It  is  a  chance  for 
you.  Is  your  hair  tidy  ? 

C^CILE.     A  chance  for  me  ? 

BAR.  Yes,  a  very  desirable  person. — 
Twenty-five  to  thirty  or  younger. — No,  I 
know  nothing  about  him  ;  never  mind,  go  on 
with  your  dancing. 

C£ciLE.  But,  mamma,  I  wanted  to  tell 
you — 

BAR.  It  is  incredible  how  that  ball  of  silk 
can  have  gone.  I  only  had  one  blue,  and  it 
must  needs  get  lost.  \_Enter  VAN  BUCK. 

VAN  BUCK.  Baroness,  your  humble  ser- 
vant. My  nephew  has  been  unable  to  come 
with  me ;  he  has  begged  me  to  express  his 
regret  and  to  apologize  for  his  failure  to 
keep  his  word. 

BAR.  Dear  me  !  So  he  really  is  not  com- 
ing? There  is  my  daughter  taking  her 
lesson;  do  you  mind  her  continuing?  I 
made  her  come  down  here  because  her 
rooms  are  so  small. 

VAN  B.  I  hope  I  am  not  disturbing  any- 
body. If  my  crazy  nephew — 

BAR.  Will  you  take  anything  ?  No  ?  Sit 
down  then.  And  how  are  you  ? 

VAN  B.  My  nephew,  Madame,  is  very 
sorry — 


VALENTIN'S   WAGER.  259 

BAR.  Please,  do  wait — Abbe,  you  will  stay, 
won't  you  ?  Well,  Cecile,  what  is  the  matter? 

D-M.     Mademoiselle  is  fatigued,  Madame. 

BAR.  Fiddlededee  !  If  she  were  at  a 
ball,  and  it  were  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
she  would  not  be  fatigued,  I  know.  Now, 
tell  me  [to  VAN  BUCK],  has  he  failed  you  ? 

VAN  B.  I  am  afraid  so  ;  and,  to  tell  the 
whole  truth — 

BAR.  Bah  !  He  declines  !  Well,  this  is 
a  pretty  business  ! 

VAN  B.  Good  Heavens,  Madame  !  Please 
do  not  think  that  I  am  to  blame  in  any  way. 
I  swear  to  you  by  the  soul  of  my  father — 

BAR.  But  he  declines,  is  it  not  so  ?  Our 
plan  has  failed  ? 

VAN  B.  Madame,  if  I  could,  without 
falsehood, — 

[An  uproar  is  heard  outside. 

BAR.     What  is  it  ?     Look,  Abbe",  look  ! 

ABBE.  Madame,  it  is  a  carriage  upset  in 
front  of  your  door.  They  are  bringing  in  a 
young  man  who  seems  to  be  senseless. 

BAR.  Man  Dieu  !  A  corpse  coming  into 
the  house !  Let  them  prepare  the  green 
room.  Come,  Van  Buck,  give  me  your  arm. 

*         [  They  go  out. 


260  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

ACT  II.— SCENE  I.— A  WALK  BY  THE 
SIDE  OF  A  HIGH  HEDGE. 

Enter  VALENTIN  and  VAN  BUCK,  the  former 
with  his  arm  in  a  sling. 

VAN  B.  Is  it  possible,  you  unhappy  boy, 
that  you  have  really  dislocated  your  arm  ? 

VAL.  Nothing  is  more  possible  ;  it  is  even 
probable,  and,  what  is  more,  painfully  real. 

VAN  B.  I  don't  know  which  of  us  two  is 
more  to  blame  in  this  affair.  Did  any  one 
ever  see  such  a  piece  of  madness? 

VAL.  I  had  to  find  a  pretext  to  intro- 
duce myself  in  a  fitting  manner.  How  can 
one  present  oneself  thus  incognito  in  a  re- 
spectable family  ?  I  gave  my  postilion  a 
louis  and  made  him  promise  to  upset  me  in 
front  of  the  chateau.  He  is  an  honest  man  ; 
there  is  nothing  to  be  said  against  him,  and 
his  money  was  fairly  earned.  He  drove  that 
wheel  into  the  ditch  with  heroic  fortitude. 
I  dislocated  my  arm,  that  was  my  fault ;  but 
I  was  upset,  and  have  nothing  to  complain 
of.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  well  satisfied  ;  it 
gives  things  an  air  of  reality  which  tells  in 
my  favor. 

VAN  B.  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
What  are  your  intentions  ? 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  261 

VAL.  I  have  not  come  here,  by  any 
means,  to  marry  Mile,  de  Mantes,  but  only 
to  prove  that  I  should  be  a  fool  to  do  so. 
My  plan  is  laid,  my  battery  is  in  position, 
and,  so  far,  everything  goes  on  marvellously 
well.  You  have  stood  to  your  promise  like 
a  Regulus  or  an  Hernani.  You  have  not 
called  me  nephew,  that  is  the  chief,  and  most 
difficult,  point.  Here  I  am,  received,  enter- 
tained, lodged  in  a  fine  green  room,  with 
orange  water  on  my  table  and  white  curtains 
on  my  bed.  It  is  only  justice  to  your 
Baroness  to  say  that  she  has  received  me  as 
well  as  my  postilion  upset  me.  Now,  the 
question  is  whether  everything  else  will  be 
as ' satisfactory.  I  propose,  first  of  all,  to 
make  my  declaration  ;  secondly,  to  write  a 
love-letter — 

VAN  B.  It  is  useless  ;  I  will  not  suffer  this 
ugly  joke  to  go  any  further. 

VAL.  You  take  back  your  word  !  As 
you  please  ;  I  take  mine  back  too,  on  the 
spot. 

VAN  B.     But,  nephew — 

VAL.  Only  say  the  word  and  I  start  for 
Paris  ;— no  bargain  no  marriage  ;  you  shall 
disinherit  me  if  you  please. 

VAN  B.  This  is  an  abominable  hornet's 
nest,  and  it  is  an  unheard-of  thing  that  I 


262  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

should  have  got  myself  into  it.  But  go  on, 
let  us  see, — explain  yourself. 

VAL.  Uncle,  think  of  our  treaty.  You 
said  and  conceded  to  me  that,  should  it  be 
established  that  my  intended  would  make 
me  wear  certain  gloves,  I  should  be  a  mad- 
man to  make  her  my  wife.  Consequently, 
the  experiment  once  admitted,  you  will  see  it 
to  be  good,  just,  and  fitting  that  it  should  be 
as  complete  as  possible.  What  I  say  shall 
be  well  said,  what  I  attempt  well  attempted, 
and  what  I  succeed  in  doing  well  done.  You 
shall  not  catch  me  cheating,  and  in  any  case, 
I  have  carte  blanche. 

VAN  B.  But  surely  there  are  certain  limits, 
certain  things — I  beg  you  to  observe  that,  if 
you  prevail, — Mercy  on  us  !  How  reckless  ! 

VAL.  If  our  intended  is  as  you  believe  her 
and  have  represented  her  to  me,  there  is  not 
the  least  danger,  and  her  dignity  can  only  be 
the  gainer.  Just  suppose  that  I  am  some 
chance  gallant  ;  I  am  the  lover  of  Mademois- 
selle  de  Mantes,  virtuous  spouse  of  Valentin 
Van  Buck  ;  think  how  audacious  and  reck- 
less are  the  young  men  of  our  time  !  What 
will  they  not  do  when  they  love  !  What 
climbings  up  to  windows,  what  letters  of  four 
pages,  what  boxes  of  sugar-plums  !  What 
will  turn  a  lover  aside  ?  For  what  can  he 


VALENTIN'S   IVAGEK.  263 

be  called  to  account  ?  What  wrong  can  he 
do  ?  What  ground  for  offence  can  he 
give  ?  He  loves.  O  Uncle  Van  Buck,  think 
of  the  time  when  you  loved. 

VAN  B.  At  all  times  I  have  been  decent, 
and  I  hope  you  will  be,  or  I  shall  tell  the 
Baroness  everything. 

VAL.  I  propose  to  do  nothing  which  can 
shock  any  one.  I  propose,  in  the  first  place, 
to  make  a  declaration  ;  secondly,  to  write  sev- 
eral notes  ;  thirdly,  to  make  friends  with  the 
lady's-maid  ;  fourthly,  to  hang  about  in 
corners  ;  fifthly,  to  take  impressions  of  sun- 
dry keys  on  sealing-wax  ;  sixthly,  to  make  a 
rope-ladder  and  cut  the  window-panes  with 
my  diamond  ring  ;  seventhly,  to  kneel  down 
and  recite  selections  from  "  la  Nouvelle 
Httoise ";  and  eighthly,  if  I  fail,  to  go  and 
drown  myself  in  the  ornamental  water.  But 
I  swear  to  you  I  will  be  decent,  and  not  utter 
a  single  ugly  word  or  anything  that  could 
wound  the  proprieties. 

VAN  B.  You  are  a  shameless  debauchee  ; 
I  will  permit  no  such  thing. 

VAL.  But  consider  ;  in  four  years,  if  I 
marry  Mile,  de  Mantes,  some  one  else  will  be 
doing  all  that  I  have  just  told  you  ;  and  how 
am  I  to  know  how  far  she  is  capable  of  re- 
sistance unless  I  first  make  trial  of  her  my- 


264  VALENTIN'S   WAGER. 

self?  Some  one  else  will  try  her  still  harder 
and  will  have  more  time  to  do  it  in.  In 
asking,  only  a  week  I  have  shown  great 
moderation. 

VAN  B.  It  is  a  trap  that  you  have  laid  for 
me  ;  I  never  foresaw  all  this. 

VAL.  And  what  did  you  think  you  foresaw 
when  you  accepted  my  wager  ? 

VAN  B.  Why,  my  friend,  I  supposed — I 
thought — I  thought  you  were  going  to  court, — 
but  politely, — to  court  this  young  person, — to 
say,  for  instance, — to  say  to  her. — Or  even 
perhaps — And  yet  I  know  nothing  about  it — 
But,  devil  take  it  !  You  are  something 
dreadful  ! 

VAL.  Stop  !  Here  is  the  fair  Ce"cile  com- 
ing tripping  towards  us.  Don't  you  hear  the 
crackling  of  the  dry  twigs  ?  Mamma  is  em- 
broidering with  her  Abbe.  Quick  !  Bury 
yourself  in  the  hedge  !  You  shall  be  a  wit- 
ness of  the  first  skirmish,  and  give  me  your 
opinion. 

VAN  B.  You  will  marry  her  if  she  receives 
you  badly  ?  [Hides  himself  in  the  hedge. 

VAL.  Leave  me  alone,  and  don't  stir.  I 
am  delighted  to  have  you  for  a  spectator,  and 
the  enemy  is  turning  the  corner.  As  you 
have  called  me  a  madman  I  wish  to  show  you 
that,  when  it  comes  to  extravagances,  the 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  265 

further  you  push  them  the  better.  You  are 
going  to  see  what  wounds  received  for  the 
sake  of  beauty  will  do  when  joined  to  a  little 
address.  Observe  my  pensive  walk,  and  be 
kind  enough  to  say  whether  this  damaged 
arm  doesn't  become  me.  Well,  you  see, 
just  let  a  man  look  pale — nothing  in  the 
world  like  it. 

"  Un  jeune  malade,  a  pas  lents  " — 

Above  all,  no  noise  !  Now  is  the  critical 
moment.  Respect  your  oath  !  I  am  going 
to  sit  down  beneath  a  tree,  like  a  shepherd 
of  old. 

\Enter  CECILE,  with  a  book  in  her  hand. 

VAL.  Risen  already,  Mademoiselle,  and 
alone  in  the  wood  at  this  hour  ? 

C£CILE.  It  is  you,  Monsieur  ?  I  didn't 
recognize  you.  How  is  your  sore  arm  ? 

VAL.  (aside.}  Sore  arm!  What  a  hideous 
word  !  (aloud.)  You  are  too  kind  to  me  ; 
but  there  are  some  wounds  which  one  never 
more  than  half  feels. 

C^CILE.  Have  they  brought  you  your 
breakfast  ? 

VAL.  You  are  too  good  ;  of  all  the  vir- 
tues of  your  sex  hospitality  is  the  least 
known,  and  nowhere  is  it  to  be  found  in 
such  sweet  and  precious  perfection  as  with 


266  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

you.     If  the  interest  in  me  which  has  been 
shown — 

CECILE.  I  will  go  and  tell  them  to  bring 
yon  some  broth.  [She  goes. 

VAN  B.  (coming  out  of  the  hedge.}  You 
will  marry  her  !  You  will  marry  her  !  Con- 
fess that  she  is  perfect.  What  naivete ' ! 
What  divine  modesty  !  It  would  be  impos- 
sible to  make  a  better  choice. 

VAL.  One  moment,  uncle,  one  moment ! 
You  are  going  to  work  rather  too  fast. 

VAN  B.  Why  not  ?  What  more  do  you 
want  ?  You  see  clearly  whom  you  have  to 
deal  with,  and  it  will  always  be  the  same. 
How  happy  you  will  be  with  such  a  wife  ! 
Come  !  Let  us  go  and  tell  the  Baroness 
everything  ;  I  undertake  to  appease  her. 

VAL.  Broth !  How  can  a  young  girl 
utter  such  a  word  ?  I  don't  like  her  ;  she  is 
ugly  and  stupid — Good-bye,  uncle  ;  I  am 
going  back  to  Paris. 

VAN  B.  Are  you  joking?  What  of  your 
promise  ?  Am  I  to  be  thus  made  sport  of  ? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  these  downcast  eyes 
and  this  dejected  look  ?  Does  it  mean  that 
you  take  me  for  a  libertine  after  your  own 
fashion,  and  avail  yourself  of  my  foolish 
complacency  as  a  cloak  for  your  villainous 
designs  ?  Was  it  really  only  a  crime  that 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  267 

you  came  here  to  attempt  under  pretence  of 
testing  her  principles?  God's  light!  If  I 
thought  so — 

VAL.  I  don't  like  her  ;  it  is  not  my  fault, 
and  I  never  answered  for  it. 

VAN  B.  And  what  is  there  in  her  that 
you  don't  like  ?  She  is  pretty,  or  I  am  blind. 
She  has  long,  well-opened  eyes,  superb  hair, 
a  tolerable  figure.  She  is  perfectly  edu- 
cated,— knows  English  and  Italian  ; — she 
will  have,  some  day,  an  income  of  thirty 
thousand  francs,  and  a  very  handsome  dow- 
ry in  the  mean  time.  What  have  you  to  say 
against  her  ?  What  reason  have  you  to  give 
for  refusing  her  ? 

VAL.  There  never  is  any  reason  to  give 
for  people's  likes  or  dislikes.  It  is  certain 
that  she  is  distasteful  to  me, — with  her  "  sore 
arm  "  and  her  "broth." 

VAN  B.  It  is  your  self-love  that  suffers. 
If  I  had  not  been  there  you  would  have 
come  and  told  me  a  hundred  stories  about 
your  first  interview,  and  bragged  about  your 
fine  prospects.  You  imagined  that  you 
would  make  a  conquest  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye.  That  is  where  the  shoe  pinches. 
You  were  well  enough  pleased  with  her  yes- 
terday evening,  before  you  had  talked  to 
her,  when  she  and  her  mother  were  taking 


268  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

so  nruch  trouble  to  tend  you  and  your  Tom- 
fool's wound.  Now  you  find  her  ugly  be- 
cause she  pays  you  hardly  any  attention.  I 
know  you  better  than  you  think,  and  Pwon't 
give  in  so  quickly.  I  forbid  you  to  leave 
this  place. 

VAL.  As  you  please.  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  her.  I  repeat,  I  think  her  down- 
right plain  ;  she  has  an  idiotic  air  which  is 
revolting.  Her  eyes  are  large,  it  is  true,  but 
meaningless  ;  her  hair  is  good,  but  she  has  a 
flat  forehead  ;  as  for  her  figure,  it  is,  per- 
haps, the  best  thing  about  her,  although  you 
only  thought  it  tolerable.  I  congratulate 
her  on  knowing  Italian, — perhaps  she  is  wit- 
tier in  Italian  than  in  French.  As  to  her 
dowry,  let  her  keep  it,  I  don't  want  it, — any 
more  than  I  want  her  broth. 

VAN  B.  Can  any  one  conceive  such  a 
crackbrain  ?  Would  any  one  expect  such  a 
thing  as  this  ?  Be  off  with  you  !  What  I 
said  yesterday  was  nothing  but  the  truth. 
You  are  only  fit  to  dream  of  fiddle-faddle 
and  rubbish,  and  I  will  trouble  myself  no 
more  about  you.  Go  and  marry  your  wash- 
erwoman, if  you  like.  Since  you  refuse  to 
take  your  fortune  when  you  have  it  in  your 
hands,  let  chance  take  care  of  you  ; — look 
for  it  in  the  bottom  of  your  dice-boxes. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  269 

God  is  my  witness  that,  for  three  years,  my 
patience  has  been  such  as,  perhaps,  no  other 
man — 

VAL.  Am  I  mistaken  ? — Look,  uncle  ;  it 
seems  to  me  that  she  is  coming  back  this 
way.  Yes,  I  see  her  between  the  trees,  she 
is  coming  back  into  the  coppice. 

VAN  B.  Where  ?  What  ?  What  do  you 
say  ? 

VAL.  Don't  you  see  a  white  dress  behind 
those  lilac-bushes  ?  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is 
really  she.  Quick,  uncle,  get  back  into  the 
hedge,  or  we  shall  be  surprised  together. 

VAN  B.  What  is  the  good,  if  you  don't 
like  her  ? 

VAL.  Never  mind  ;  I  want  to  make  an- 
other attempt,  so  that  you  may  not  say  I  have 
decided  too  hastily. 

VAN  B.  You  will  marry  her,  if  she  perse- 
veres ?  \_He  hides  again. 

VAL.     Sh  !     No  noise  ;  here  she  comes. 

C£CILE  (entering.}  Monsieur,  my  mother 
has  charged  me  to  ask  you  if  you  intend 
leaving  us  to-day  ? 

VAL.  Yes,  Mademoiselle,  that  is  my  in- 
tention, and  I  have  ordered  horses. 

C^CILE.  Because  they  are  going  to  play 
whist,  and  my  mother  would  be  much  obliged 
if  you  would  make  a  fourth. 


270  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

VAL.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  don't  know  how 
to  play. 

C£ciLE.  And  if  you  would  stay  to  dinner, 
we  have  a  pheasant  and  truffles. 

VAL.  Thank  you  ;  I  never  eat  pheasant 
and  truffles. 

CtfciLE.  After  dinner  there  are  some  peo- 
ple coming,  and  we  shall  dance  the  mazurka. 

VAL.     Pray  excuse  me  ;  I  never  dance. 

C£ciLE.  That  is  a  great  pity.  Adieu, 
Monsieur.  \Ctcile  goes. 

VAN  B.  (coming  out  again.)  There  now  ! 
Will  you  marry  her?  What  is  the  meaning 
of  all  this  ?  You  say  you  have  ordered 
horses  ;  is  that  true  ?  or  are  you  mocking 
me  ? 

VAL.  You  were  right,  she  is  a  nice  girl  ; 
I  like  her  better  than  I  did  before  ;  she  has  a 
little  mark  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  which 
I  had  not  noticed. 

VAN  B.  What  are  you  after  now  ?  What 
has  come  over  you  ?  Will  you  answer  me 
seriously  ? 

VAL.  I  am  after  nothing  in  particular, 
only  taking  a  walk  with  you.  You  don't 
think  her  bad-looking,  do  you  ? 

VAN  B.  I  ?  God  forbid  !  I  think  her 
perfect  in  every  way. 

VAL.     It  seems  to  me  very  early  for  whist; 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  271 

do  you  play,  uncle  ?  You  ought  to  go  into 
the  house. 

VAN  B.  Certainly  I  ought.  I  am  waiting 
until  you  deign  to  answer  me.  Are  you  going 
to  remain  here, — yes  or  no  ? 

VAL.  If  I  remain,  it  is  for  the  sake  of 
our  wager  ;  I  should  not  like  to  be  wanting 
in  that  matter.  But  don't  count  on  anything 
for  the  present ;  my  arm  is  putting  me  to 
torture. 

VAN  B.     Let  us  go  in,  you  must  rest. 

VAL.  Yes,  I  am  longing  to  taste  that 
broth  that  is  awaiting  me,  and  I  have  some 
writing  to  do.  I  shall  see  you  again  at 
dinner. 

VAN  B.  Writing  !  I  hope  it  is  not  to  her 
you  are  going  to  write. 

VAL.  If  I  write  to  her,  it  is  for  the  sake  of 
our  wager.  You  know  it  is  part  of  the  agree- 
ment. 

VAN  B.  I  protest  formally ; — at  least, 
unless  you  show  me  your  letter. 

VAL.  I  don't  mind.  I  have  told  you,  and 
I  repeat  it,  that  I  like  her  pretty  well. 

VAN  B.  Where  is  the  necessity  for  writ- 
ing? Why  did  you  not  make  your  declara- 
tion just  now,  by  word  of  mouth,  as  you  had 
promised  ? 

VAL.     Why  ? 


272  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

VAN  B.  Certainly ;  what  was  there  to 
hinder  you  ?  You  had  the  finest  courage  in 
the  world. 

VAL.  It  was  because  my  arm  was  hurting 
me.  Wait  !  There  she  is  again.  Do  you 
see  her  down  there  in  the  alley  ? 

VAN  B.  She  is  turning  round  the  flower- 
bed, and  the  hedge  is  circular.  That  doesn't 
look  like  coming  back  here. 

VAL.  Ah  !  You  little  coquette  !  She  is 
circling  round  the  flame,  like  a  giddy  moth. 
I  am  going  to  toss  up  to  see  whether  I  shall 
love  her  or  not. 

VAN  B.  Try  to  make  her  love  you  first  ; 
the  rest  will  be  easier. 

VAL.  Very  well,  then.  Let  us  both 
watch  her  well.  She  is  going  to  pass  be- 
tween those  two  clumps  of  trees.  If  she 
turns  her  head  this  way  I  love  her  ;  if  not, 
I'm  off  to  Paris. 

VAN  B.     I  bet  she  doesn't  turn  back. 

VAL.    Yes,  she  will.    Don't  lose  sight  of  her. 

VAN  B.  You  are  right — No,  not  yet.  She 
seems  to  be  reading  attentively. 

VAL.     I  am  sure  she  will  turn  back. 

VAN  B.  No,  she  is  keeping  on.  She  is 
nearing  the  clump  of  trees.  I  am  convinced 
she  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 

VAL.     But    she    must    see    us ;    there    is 


VALENTIN'S   WAGER.  273 

nothing  to  hide  us.  I  tell  you  she  will  turn 
back. 

VAN  B.  She  has  passed.  You  have 
lost. 

VAL.  I  am  going  to  write  to  her,  as  sure 
as  1  live  !  I  must  know  what  I  have  to  ex- 
pect. It  is  absurd  that  a  little  girl  should 
treat  people  so  slightingly  !  Pure  hypocrisy  ! 
Nothing  but  trickery  !  I  am  going  to  send 
her  a  letter  in  regular  form.  I  will  tell  her 
that  I  am  dying  of  love  for  her,  that  if  she 
repulses  me  I  will  blow  out  my  brains,  and 
that  if  she  will  have  me  I  will  run  away  with 
her  to-morrow  morning.  Come,  let  us  go  in. 
I  will  write  in  your  presence. 

VAN  B.  Softly,  nephew  !  What  are  you 
at  now  ?  You  are  going  to  play  us  some 
wicked  trick  here. 

VAL.  Do  you  think,  then,  that  two  casual 
words  can  signify  anything  ?  What  have  I 
said  to  her  beyond  the  most  indifferent  trifles, 
and  what  has  she  said  to  me  ?  It  is  plain 
that  she  had  no  cause  for  turning  round. 
She  knows  nothing  and  I  have  been  able  to 
say  nothing  to  her.  I  am  a  fool,  if  you  like. 
Perhaps  I  am  piqued  ;  perhaps  my  self- 
esteem  is  at  stake.  Pretty  or  plain,  I  want  to 
see  into  her  soul.  There  is  some  scheme  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  some  piece  of  obstinacy  we 


274  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

know  nothing  about.  Leave  me  to  act,  and 
all  shall  be  made  clear. 

VAN  B.  The  devil  take  me  if  you  don't 
talk  like  a  lover.  Are  you  in  love,  by  any 
chance  ? 

VAL.  No.  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not 
like  her.  Must  I  tell  you  the  same  thing  a 
hundred  times  ?  Let  us  hurry  back  to  the 
house. 

VAN  B.  I  have  told  you  that  I  will  have 
no  letters  ;  and,  above  all,  such  as  you  speak 
of. 

VAL.  Come,  all  the  same.  We  will  settle 
it  in  the  house.  [They  go  in. 


ACT  II.     SCENE  II.— THE  SALON. 

The   BARONESS  and  the  ABBE"  before  a  table 
prepared  for  playing  cards. 

BARONESS.  Say  what  you  like,  it  is  dread- 
fully dull  playing  with  a  dummy.  I  hate  the 
country  just  for  that  reason. 

ABBE".  But  where  is  M.  Van  Buck  ?  Has 
he  not  come  down  yet  ? 

BAR.  I  saw  him  just  now  in  the  park  with 
the  gentleman  of  the  broken-down  carriage, 
who,  by  the  way,  is  very  impolite  not  to  wish 
to  stay  for  dinner. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  275 

ABBE\  I  suppose  he  has  pressing  busi- 
n  ess — 

BAR.  Bah  !  Business  !  Everybody  has 
business.  A  fine  excuse  that  !  If  people 
only  thought  of  business  they  would  never 
do  anything.  Stay  though  !  Abbe,  let  us 
play  piquet.  I  feel  in  a  horribly  bad  hu- 
mor. 

ABB£  (shuffling}.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
the  young  men  of  these  days  care  little  for 
politeness. 

BAR.  Politeness  !  I  should  think  not. 
Have  they  any  idea  of  it  ?  And  then,  what 
is  politeness  ?  My  coachman  is  polite.  In 
my  time,  Abbe,  gentlemen  were  gallant. 

ABBE.  As  it  should  be,  Baroness,  as  it 
should  be  ;  and  would  to  heaven  I  had  been 
born  in  those  days  ! 

BAR.  I  should  have  liked  to  see  my 
brother,  who  was  in  the  Household  of  Mon- 
sieur, falling  out  of  a  carriage  in  front  of  a 
chateau,  and  staying  there  for  the  night. 
He  would  have  forfeited  everything  he  had, 
sooner  than  refuse  to  make  a  fourth.  But 
let  us  not  talk  about  these  things.  It  is  your 
draw  ;  do  you  leave  me  any  cards  ? 

ABBE.  I  haven't  an  ace.  Here  is  M.  Van 
Buck.  [Enter  VAN  BUCK. 

BAR.     Go  on  ;  it  is  your  turn  to  speak. 


2 70  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

VAN  BUCK  (to  the  BARONESS  in  a  low  voice}. 
Madame,  I  have  to  say  a  few  words  to  you, 
which  are 'of  the  utmost  importance. 

BAR.  Very  well  !  After  we  have  counted 
this  hand. 

ABB£.     Five  cards — forty-five. 

BAR:  No  good.  \To  VAN  BUCK.]  Well, 
what  is  it  ? 

VAN  B.  I  implore  you  to  grant  me  one 
moment  ;  I  cannot  speak  before  a  third  per- 
son, and  what  I  have  to  tell  you  will  bear  no 
delay. 

BAR.  (rising.)  You  frighten  me  ;  what  is 
it  about  ? 

VAN  B.  Madame,  it  is  a  serious  matter, 
and  you  will,  perhaps,  be  angry  with  me. 
Necessity  compels  me  to  break  a  promise 
which  my  imprudence  induced  me  to  make. 
The  young  man  to  whom  you  extended  your 
hospitality  last  night  is  my  nephew. 

BAR.     What  an  idea  ! 

VAN  B.  He  desired  to  approach  you  with- 
out being  known.  I  thought  it  no  harm  to 
lend  myself  to  a  whim,  which,  in  a  case  like 
this,  is  not  without  precedent. 

BAR.     I  have  seen  much  worse  pranks  ! 

VA>N  B.  But  I  ought  to  warn  you  that, 
at  this  moment,  he  has  just  finished  writing 
to  Mile,  de  Mantes  a  letter  couched  in  the 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  277 

most  unrestrained  language.  Neither  my 
threats  nor  my  prayers  could  turn  him  from 
this  act  of  folly  ;  and  one  of  your  servants,  I 
say  it  with  regret,  has  taken  upon  herself  to 
deliver  the  note.  It  is  a  declaration  of  love, 
and  one,  I  must  add,  of  the  most  extravagant 
character. 

BAR.  Indeed  ?  Well  !  I  see  no  great 
harm  in  that.  That  young  man  of  yours  has 
his  wits  about  him. 

VAN  B.  I  should  think  so,  Madame  ! 
And  it  is  not  only  since  yesterday  that  I  have 
known  of  it.  In  short,  Madame,  it  is  for 
you  to  devise  means  to  avert  the  evil  conse- 
quences of  these  proceedings.  You  are  in 
your  own  house  ; — and,  as  for  me,  I  declare 
my  breath  is  taken  away,  and  I  feel  as  if  I 
must  drop.  Oh!  \Hefallsintoa  chair. 

BAR.  Heavens  !  What  is  the  matter  with 
you  !  You  areas  white  as  a  sheet  !  Quick  ! 
Tell  me  all  that  has  happened  ;  give  me  your 
entire  confidence. 

VAN  B.  I  have  told  you  all;  there  is  noth- 
ing more  to  add. 

BAR.  Bah  !  If  that  is  all,  you  need  have 
no  fear.  If  your  nephew  has  written  to 
Cecile,  the  child  will  show  me  his  note. 

VAN  B.  Are  you  sure  of  that,  Baroness  ? 
It  is  dangerous. 


278  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

BAR.  A  pretty  question  !  Where  should 
we  be  if  a  daughter  would  not  show  her  own 
mother  the  letters  she  receives  ? 

VAN  B.  Hm  !  I  wouldn't  stake  my  life 
on  it. 

BAR.  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mon- 
sieur Van  Buck  ?  Do  you  know  to  whom 
you  are  speaking  ?  Where  have  you  lived 
that  you  should  raise  such  a  doubt  as  that  ? 
I  know  but  little  of  the  manners  of  these 
days,  or  of  how  you  bourgeois  live  ; — but, 
upon  my  life  !  we  have  had  enough  of  this. 
There  comes  my  daughter  now,  and  you  shall 
see  that  she  will  bring  me  her  letter  Come, 
Abbe,  let  us  continue. 

ABB£.     Forty-five  won't  do  ? 

BAR.  No.  You  have  nothing. — Fourteen 
of  aces,  six  and  fifteen, — that  makes  ninety- 
five.  Now  it  is  your  turn. 

ABB£.    Clubs.    I  see  I  shall  lose  every  trick. 

VAN  B.  (aside  to  the  BARONESS.)  I  observe 
that  Mademoiselle  C£cile  has  not  yet  taken 
you  into  her  confidence. 

BAR.  '(aside  to  VAN  BUCK.)  You  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about.  She  feels 
shy  in  the  Abbe's  presence.  I  am  as  sure  of 
her  as  I  am  of  myself.  (Aloud.}  I  make  a 
repeek,  that's  all.  A  hundred  and  seven- 
teen left  over.  Your  turn. 


VALE  A7  TIN'S    IV ACER.  279 

A  SERVANT  (entering).  M.  1'Abbe,  you  are 
wanted  :  it  is  the  Sacristan  and  the  village 
Beadle. 

ABBE.     What  do  they  want  ?     I  am  busy. 

BAR.      Give  your  cards  to  Van  Buck  ;  he 
will  play    this  hand  for  you. 
[  The  AvKEgoes,  and  VAN  BUCK  takes  his  place. 

It  is  your  deal,  I  have  cut.  You  are  marked, 
I  think.  What  is  the  matter  with  your 
fingers  ? 

VAN  B.  (in  a  low  voice?)  I  confess  that  I 
am  not  at  my  ease  ;  your  daughter  says  noth- 
ing, and  I  don't  see  my  nephew. 

BAR.  I  tell  you,  I  answer  for  her;  it  is  you 
who  embarrass  her  ;  I  can  see  her  from  here 
making  signs  to  me. 

VAN  B.     You   think  so  ?     I  see  nothing. 

BAR.  Cecile,  come  here  a  little  ;  you  are 
sitting  a  mile  off. 

[C6ciLE  comes  to  her  mother's  chair. 

Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me,  my  dear  ? 

CECILE.     I  !     No,  Mamma. 

BAR.  Tut  !  I  have  only  four  cards,  Van 
Buck  ;  it  is  your  point.  I  have  three 
knaves. 

VAN  B.     Shall  I  leave  you  by  yourselves  ? 

BAR.  No  ;  stay  here  ;  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence. Cecile,  you  may  speak  before  M.  Van 
Buck. 


2&0  VALENTIN'S  WAGER 

CE'CILE.  I,  Mamma?  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  you. 

BAR.  Don't  you  want  to  speak  to  me 
about  something  ? 

CE'CILE.     No,  Mamma. 

BAR.  It  is  inconceivable.  What  is  it  that 
you  have  been  telling  me,  Van  Buck  ? 

VAN  B.  Madame,  I  have  told  you  the 
truth. 

BAR.  That  is  impossible.  Cecile  has 
nothing  to  tell  me  ;  it  is  clear  that  she  has 
received  nothing. 

VAN  B.  (rising.)  Morbleu!  I  saw  it  with 
my  own  eyes. 

BAR.  (also  rising.)  My  daughter,  what  is 
the  meaning  of  this  ?  Stand  up  and  look  me 
in  the  face.  What  have  you  got  in  your 
pocket  ? 

CE'CILE  (beginning  to  cry.)  Mamma,  it  is 
not  my  fault. — It  was  that  gentleman  who 
wrote  to  me. 

BAR.  Let  me  see.  [CtfciLE  gives  her  the 
letter.]  I  feel  some  curiosity  about  the  episto- 
lary style  of  "  that  gentleman."  [She  reads.] 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  dying  of  love  for  you. 
I  saw  you  last  winter,  and,  knowing  that  you 
were  in  the  country,  I  resolved  to  see  you 
again  or  die.  I  gave  a  louis  to  my  postilion — ' 
Perhaps  he  wants  us  to  pay  it  him  back.  How 


VALENTIN'S    WAGER.  281 

important  it  is  that  we  should  know  about  that 
louis  !  "  — to  my  postilion  to  upset  me  before 
your  gate.  I  met  you  twice  this  morning  and 
could  say  nothing  to  you,  so  much  does  your 
presence  disturb  me  !  Meanwhile,  the  fear 
of  losing  you  and  the  necessity  of  leaving  your 
house  " — I  like  that  !  Who  asked  him  to  go  ? 
It  was  he  who  refused  to  stay  for  dinner. 
"  — prompt  me  to  ask  you  fora  rendez-vous.  I 
know  that  I  have  no  claim  to  your  confi- 
dence"— A  very  true  remark,  and  highly  appro- 
priate ! — "  but  love  excuses  everything.  This 
evening,  at  nine  o'clock,  during  the  ball,  I 
shall  be  hidden  in  the  wood.  Every  one  here 
will  believe  me  gone,  for  I  shall  leave  the 
chateau  in  a  carriage  before  dinner;  but  only 
to  go  four  paces  or  so  and  then  alight — " 
Four  paces  or  so  !  The  avenue  is  longer 
than  that.  Any  one  would  think  it  would  be 
enough  for  him  just  to  get  into  his  carriage  ! 
"  — and  then  alight.  If  you  can  make  your 
escape  this  evening  I  await  you;  if  not  I  blow 
out  my  brains" — Good  !  " — brains.  I  be- 
lieve that  your  mother  " — Eh  !  What  about 
your  mother  ?  Let  us  see.  " — pays  little 
attention  to  you.  She  has  a  head  like  a 
weath — " 

Monsieur  Van  Buck,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

VAN  B.     I  did  not  hear,  Madame. 


282  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

BAR.  Read  it  yourself,  and  do  me  the 
favor  to  tell  your  nephew  to  get  out  of  my 
house,  and  never  set  foot  in  it  again. 

VAN  B.  It  is  "  weathercock"  that  is  cer- 
tain ;  I  had  not  noticed  it.  And  yet  he  read 
me  the  letter  before  sealing  it. 

BAR.     He  read  you    that  letter,  and  you 
allowed  him  to  give  it  to  one  of  my  servants  ? 
Go  !     You  are  an  old   fool,  and  I  will  never 
see  you  again  as  long  as  I  live. 
[She  goes  out.  The  rolling  of  a  carriage  is  heard. 

VAN  B.  What's  that  ?  My  nephew  going 
without  me  ?  How  does  he  expect  me  to  go  ? 
I  have  sent  away  my  horses.  I  shall  have  to 
run  after  him.  \He  goes  out,  running. 

C£ciLE  (alone).  It  is  strange  !  Why  did 
he  write  to  me  when  everybody  wants  us  to 
be  married  ? 


ACT  III.     SCENE  I.— A  ROAD. 

VAN    BUCK   and  VALENTIN  knocking  at  the 
door  of  an  Inn. 

VAL.  Halloa  !  Is  there  any  one  there 
who  can  do  an  errand  for  me  ? 

WAITER  (coming  out  of  the  door].  Yes, 
monsieur,  if  it  isn't  too  far.  You  see  it's 
raining  by  the  bucketful. 


VALENTIN'S   WAGER,  283 

VAN  B.  I  oppose  it  with  all  my  authority, 
and  in  the  name  of  the  laws  of  the  kingdom. 

VAL.  Do  you  know  the  chateau  de 
Mantes,  near  here  ? 

WAITER.  Oh  yes,  monsieur  !  We  go 
there  every  day.  It  is  on  the  left  ;  you 
can  see  it  from  here. 

VAN  B.  My  friend,  if  you  have  any  sense 
of  right  and  wrong  I  forbid  you  to  go  there. 

VAL.  There  are  two  louis  for  you  to  earn. 
Here  is  a  letter  for  Mile,  de  Mantes  which 
you  will  give  to  her  maid,  and  to  no  one  else, 
privately.  Make  haste  and  come  back. 

WAITER.     Don't  you  be  afraid,  monsieur. 

VAN  B.  Here  are  four  louis  if  you  refuse 
to  go. 

WAITER.  Monseigneur  5  There  is  no 
fear. 

VAL.  Here  are  ten  ;  and  if  you  don't  go 
I  will  break  my  cane  over  your  back  ! 

WAITER.  Make  yourself  easy,  your  high- 
ness !  I  shall  soon  be  back  ! 

VAL.  Now,  uncle,  let  us  take  shelter,  and 
let  me  recommend  a  glass  of  beer.  That 
foot-race  must  have  fatigued  you. 

VAN  B.  You  may  be  sure  I  will  not  let 
you  out  of  my  sight.  I  swear  it  by  the  soul 
of  my  late  brother  and  by  the  light  of  day  ! 
As  long  as  I  have  legs  to  carry  me  and  ? 


284  VALENTIN'S    W 'ACER. 

head  on  my  shoulders  I  will  oppose  these  in- 
famous proceedings  and  their  horrible  conse- 
quences. 

VAL.  Be  assured  I  will  not  desist  from  my 
undertaking.  I  swear  it  by  my  just  indigna- 
tion and  by  the  darkness  of  night  which  pro- 
tects me  !  As  long  as  I  have  ink  and  paper 
and  a  louis  in  my  pocket  I  will  pursue  and 
attain  my  object  whatever  may  be  the  result. 

VAN  B.  Have  you,  then,  neither  good  faith 
nor  shame,  and  is  it  possible  that  you  are  of 
my  blood  ?  What !  Can  neither  respect  for 
innocence,  nor  sense  of  propriety,  nor  the 
certainty  of  giving  me  a  fever, — can  nothing 
touch  you  ? 

VAL.  Have  you,  then,  neither  pride  nor 
shame,  and  is  it  possible  that  you  are  my 
uncle  ?  What  !  Can  neither  the  insult  that 
has  been  offered  us,  nor  the  manner  in  which 
we  have  been  hunted  from  this  chateau,  nor 
the  opprobrious  things  said  to  you  in  your 
very  face, — can  nothing  arouse  your  spirit  ? 

VAN  B.  If  you  were  even  in  love  !  If  I 
could  believe  that  all  these  extravagances 
proceed  from  a  motive  having  something 
human  in  it  !  But  no,  you  are  only  a  Love- 
lace, you  breathe  only  treachery,  and  the 
most  detestable  vengeance  is  all  you  thirst 
for  and  your  only  love. 


VALENTIN'S    WAGER.  285 

VAL.  If  I  could  only  hear  you  swear  !  If 
I  could  persuade  myself  that  at  the  bottom  of 
your  heart  you  were  sending  this  Baroness 
and  all  her  people  to  the  devil  !  But  no;  you 
are  only  afraid  of  the  rain,  you  think  only  of 
the  bad  weather,  and  the  care  of  your  dyed 
stockings  is  your  only  anxiety  and  your  only 
torment. 

VAN  B.  How  true  it  is  that  our  first  trans- 
gression leads  us  to  a  precipice  !  Who  could 
have  predicted  this  morning,  when  the  barber 
shaved  me  and  I  put  on  my  new  coat,  that, 
this  evening,  I  should  be  in  a  barn,  covered 
with  mud  and  wet  to  the  bones  !  What  !  Is 
this  I  ?  Great  God  !  Must  I,  at  my  age, 
leave  the  chaise,  in  which  we  were  so  com- 
fortably installed,  to  run  across  country  after 
a  madman  ?  Must  I  follow  at  his  heels  like 
the  confidant  in  a  tragedy,  and  the  result  of 
all  this  be  only  the  ruin  of  my  fair  name  ? 

VAL.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  by  retreat  that 
we  should  be  dishonoring  ourselves,  not  by  a 
glorious  campaign  from  which  we  shall  only 
return  as  conquerors.  Blush,  Uncle  Van 
Buck,  but  let  it  be  a  blush  of  noble  indigna- 
tion !  You  call  me  Lovelace  ;  and,  by 
Heaven  !  the  name  becomes  me.  On  me, 
as  on  him,  have  they  shut  a  gate  surmounted 
by  a  proud  escutcheon  ;  me,  like  him,  does  a 


286  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

hated  family  think  to  cast  down  by  insult  -, 
like  him, — like  the  hawk, — I  wander  and 
wheel  about  the  dovecote,  but,  like  him,  I 
will  seize  my  prey,  and,  like  Clarissa,  the 
sublimely  haughty  prude,  my  beloved  one 
shall  be  mine  ! 

VAN  B.  Good  heavens  !  Why  am  I  not 
at  Antwerp,  seated  on  my  leather  chair,  be- 
fore my  counter,  unrolling  my  silks  ?  Why 
did  not  my  brother  die  a  bachelor,  instead  of 
marrying  when  he  was  over  forty  ?  Or, 
rather,  why  did  I  not  die  the  first  day  the 
Baroness  de  Mantes  invited  me  to  dinner  ? 

VAL.  Nay,  regret  only  the  moment  wrieu 
a  fatal  weakness  prompted  you  to  reveal  to 
that  woman  the  secret  of  our  compact.  It  is 
you  who  are  the  cause  of  the  evil  ;  cease 
reproaching  me,  who  am  about  to  repair  it. 
Have  you  any  doubt  that  this  young  lady, 
who  hides  love-letters  so  well  in  the  pocket 
of  her  apron,  would  have  come  to  the  ren- 
dez-vous  ?  Surely  she  would  ;  all  the  more, 
then,  will  she  come  this  time.  By  my  Patron 
Saint !  How  I  shall  enjoy  seeing  her  come, 
in  dressing-gown,  slippers,  and  mob-cap, 
from  that  great  old  rusty  brick  barrack  !  J 
have  no  love  for  her  ;  but,  did  I  love  her,  my 
revenge  would  be  the  stronger  and  kill  love 
in  my  heart.  I  swear  that  she  shall  be  my 


VALENTIN'S   WAGER.  287 

mistress,  but  never  my  wife.  There  is  now 
neither  trial,  nor  promise,  nor  alternative 
for  me,  but  they  shall  forever  remember  in 
that  family  the  day  on  which  they  drove  me 
from  it. 

INNKEEPER  (coming  out  of  the  house). 
Gentlemen,  the  sun  is  beginning  to  be  low  ; 
will  you  not  do  me  the  honor  to  dine  in  my 
house  ? 

VAL.  To  be  sure  we  will.  Bring  us  the 
bill-of-fare,  and  have  a  fire  lighted.  As  soon 
as  your  man  comes  back  you  will  tell  him  to 
bring  me  the  answer.  Come,  uncle  ;  show  a 
little  courage  ;  come  and  order  dinner. 

VAN  B.  The  wine  will  be  abominable  ;  I 
know  the  country  ;  it  will  be  some  frightful 
vinegar. 

INNKEEPER.  I  beg  your  pardon.  We 
have  champagne,  burgundy,  and  all  that  you 
can  wish. 

VAN  B.  I  daresay,  in  a  hole  like  this  !  It 
is  impossible.  You  are  imposing  on  us. 

INNKEEPER.  The  coaches  stop  here,  and 
you  shall  see  that  we  are  not  so  badly  pro- 
vided. 

VAN  B.  Well  then,  let  us  try  and  dine.  I 
feel  that  my  end  is  approaching,  and  that 
soon  I  shall  dine  no  more. 

[  They  go  into  the  inn. 


288  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

SCENE    II.— A    ROOM    IN    THE    CHA- 
TEAU. 

The  BARONESS  and  the  ABBS'. 

BARONESS.  God  be  praised  !  My  daugh- 
ter is  safely  locked  up.  I  believe  I  shall  be 
ill  after  this. 

ABBE\  Madame,  if  I  may  venture  to  ten- 
der my  advice,  I  must  say  that  I  feel  con- 
siderable misgivings.  I  think  I  saw  a  man 
in  a  blouse  crossing  the  courtyard  ;  he 
was  a  suspicious-looking  person,  and  he  had 
a  letter  in  his  hand. 

BAR.  The  door  is  bolted  ;  there  is  nothing 
to  fear.  Help  me  a  little  about  this  ball  ;  I 
have  not  the  strength  to  attend  to  it. 

ABB£.  Under  the  very  grave  circum- 
stances could  you  not  postpone  it  ? 

BAR.  Are  you  mad  ?  Do  you  expect  me 
to  bring  the  whole  Faubourg  Saint-Germain 
down  here  from  Paris  only  to  thank  them 
for  coming,  and  show  them  the  door  ?  Think 
of  what  you  are  saying. 

ABBE.  I  thought  that,  after  what  has 
happened,  you  could,  without  offending  any 
one — 

BAR.  And,  to  add  to  my  troubles,  I  have 
no  candles!  Just  see  if  Dupre  is  there. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  289 

ABB£.  I  think  he  is  attending  to  the  re- 
freshments. 

BAR.  So  he  is  ; — those  horrid  refresh- 
ments !  There  is  another  thing  that  is  enough 
to  kill  me.  It  is  eight  days  since  I  wrote 
about  them  myself,  and  they  only  came  an 
hour  ago. 

ABBE.  That  man  in  the  blouse,  Baroness, 
was  an  emissary,  you  may  be  sure.  It  seems 
to  me,  as  well  as  I  can  remember,  that  one  of 
your  maids  was  talking  to  him.  That  young 
man  who  came  here  yesterday  is  a  dangerous 
person,  and,  after  the  somewhat  abrupt  way 
in  which  you  got  rid  of  him, — 

BAR.  Bah  !  Those  Van  Bucks  ?  Those 
linen-drapers  ?  What  can  they  do  ?  If  they 
wanted  to  raise  a  shout,  what  voice  have 
they?  I  must  take  the  furniture  out  of  the 
little  salon;  I  shall  have  nothing  for  the 
people  to  sit  on. 

ABBE.  Is  it  in  her  own  room  that  your 
daughter  is  locked,  Madame  ? 

BAR.  Ten  and  ten  make  twenty, — four 
Raimbaults, — twenty, — thirty.  What  do  you 
say,  Abbe  ? 

ABBE.  I  was  asking,  Baroness,  if  Made- 
moiselle Cecile  is  locked  up  in  the  yellow 
room  ? 

BAR.     No,  she  is  there,  in  the  library.     It 


290  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

is  still  better  so,  I  have  her  under  my  hand. 
I  don't  know  what  she  is  doing,  or  whether 
they  are  dressing  her. — Here  is  my  head- 
ache coming  on  again  ! 

ABBE.  Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  talk 
to  her  ? 

BAR.  I  tell  you  the  door  is  bolted.  What 
is  done  is  done  ;  we  can  do  nothing  about  it. 

ABBE.  I  think  it  was  her  maid  who  was 
talking  with  that  fellow.  Let  me  beg  of  you 
to  believe  what  I  say  ;  there  is  some  secret 
danger  here  which  ought  not  to  be  neglected. 

BAR.  I  must  certainly  go  down  to  the 
butler's  pantry  ;  this  shall  be  the  last  time  I 
receive  in  this  place.  [She  goes  out. 

ABBE  (alone}.  It  seems  to  me  I  heard  a 
noise  in  the  next  room.  It  couldn't  be  that 
girl  ?  Alas  !  How  thoughtless  she  is  ! 

CECILE  (within}.  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  please 
open  the  door. 

ABBE.  Mademoiselle,  I  cannot  without 
due  authority. 

CECILE.  The  key  is  there,  under  the  sofa- 
pillow  ;  you  have  only  to  take  it  and  open 
the  door. 

ABBE\  You  are  right,  Mademoiselle,  the 
key  is  there,  as  you  say  :  but  I  can  make  no 
use  of  it,  however  much  I  would  wish  to. 

CECILE.     Ah  !     I  feel  so  faint. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  291 

ABBE.  Good  Heavens  !  Try  and  calm 
yourself.  I  will  go  in  search  of  the  Baro- 
ness. Is  it  possible  that  some  sad  accident 
has  befallen  you,  so  suddenly!  In  heaven's 
name,  Mademoiselle,  answer  me  ;  how  do 
you  feel  ? 

CECILE.     I  am  ill  !     I  am  ill  ! 

ABBE".  I  cannot  allow  so  charming  a 
young  person  to  expire  in  this  way.  I  take 
it  upon  myself  to  open  the  door,  and  they 
may  say  what  they  please. 

\_He  opens  the  door. 

CECILE.  I  take  it  upon  myself  to  be  off, 
Abbe,  and  they  may  say  what  they  please. 

[She  runs  out. 


SCENE  III.— A  WOOD. 
Enter  VAN  BUCK  and  VALENTIN. 

VAL.  The  moon  is  rising,  and  the  storm 
has  passed  over.  Look  at  those  bright  beads, 
how  the  warm  breeze  sets  them  rolling  over 
the  leaves  !  The  sand  scarcely  retains  the 
impress  of  our  feet,  the  thirsty  soil  has  already 
drunk  in  the  rain. 

VAN  B.  We  haven't  dined  so  badly,  for  a 
chance  wayside-inn.  I  stood  sadly  in  need 
of  that  blazing  fire  ;  it  has  brought  back  the 


292  VALENTIN'S    WAGER. 

spring  into  my  old  legs.  Well,  my  boy,  are 
we  coming  to  this  place  ? 

VAL.  This  is  the  end  of  our  little  walk, 
but,  if  you  will  take  my  advice,  you  will  push 
on  to  that  farm-house,  where  you  see  the 
light  in  the  windows  down  there.  You  will 
seat  yourself  in  the  chimney-corner  and  order 
a  big  bowl  of  mulled  wine  with  sugar  and 
spice  for  us  two. 

VAN  B.  But  you  will  keep  me  waiting  too 
long  How  long  are  you  going  to  remain 
here  ?  At  least  remember  your  promises, 
and  be  ready  as  soon  as  the  horses  come. 

VAL.  I  swear  to  you  I  undertake  neither 
more  nor  less  than  what  we  agreed  upon. 
You  see,  uncle,  how  I  give  in  to  you,  and  try 
to  do  as  you  wish  in  everything.  In  fact  a 
good  dinner  brings  wisdom  with  it  ;  I  feel 
now  that  anger  is  sometimes  a  bad  friend. — 
Concession  on  both  sides — You  allow  me 
fifteen  minutes  of  love-making  and  I  re- 
nounce all  my  schemes  of  revenge.  The 
little  one  will  go  home,  we  to  Paris,  and 
there  will  be  the  end  of  it  all.  As  for  that 
detested  Baroness,  I  pardon  her  by  forgetting 
her. 

VAN  B.  Exactly  so  !  And  never  fear 
that  you  shall  have  to  go  without  a  wife  for  all 
that.  Who  says  that  a  silly  old  woman  shall 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  293 

ride  rough-shod  over  respectable  people  who 
have  made  their  fortune,  and  are  not  ill- 
favored  either.  Heavens  !  What  a  lovely 
moonlight  !  It  brings  back  my  young  days 
to  me. 

VAL.  This  letter  is  not  so  bad,  do  you 
know  ?  The  girl  has  wit  and  even  some- 
thing better  ;  yes,  there  is  feeling  in  those 
three  lines,  something  tender  and  bold, 
maidenly  and  brave,  at  the  same  time  ;  and 
the  rendez-vous,  too,  which  she  assigns*  me  is 
like  her  letter.  Look  at  that  thicket, — the 
sky, — this  verdant  nook  in  such  a  wild  place, 
Ah  !  The  heart  is  a  great  master  !  No 
man's  thoughts  are  equal  to  its  inspiration. 
And  it  was  the  heart  that  chose  this  place. 

VAN  B.  I  remember,  when  I  was  at  the 
Hague,  I  had  an  adventure  of  this  kind, 
My  word  !  She  was  a  fine  slip  of  a  girl  ! 
Over  five  foot  high,  and  a  regular  bundle 
of  delights.  What  Venuses  those  Flemish 
girls  are  ?  They  don't  know  what  a  woman 
is  nowadays.  All  your  Parisian  beauties  are 
as  much  cotton-wool  as  flesh. 

VAL.  I  think  I  perceive  lights  moving 
down  there  among  the  trees.  What  can  that 
mean  ?  Would  they  be  tracking  us  at  this 
time  of  night  ? 

VAN  B.     Oh,  no  doubt  they   are    making 


294  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

preparations  for  the  ball  that  is  to  take  place 
at  the  chateau  this  evening. 

VAL.  Let  us  separate,  for  greater  safety. 
In  half  an  hour  at  the  farm-house. 

VAN  B.  Agreed.  Good  luck  to  you,  my 
boy  !  You  shall  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  we 
will  make  a  song.  That  used  to  be  our  old 
way  ;  not  an  adventure  but  verses  were 
written  about  it.  [Sings. 

Eh  !  vraiment,  oui,  mademoiselle. 
Eh  !  vraiment,  oui,  nous  serons  trois. 

(VALENTIN  goes  away.     Men  carrying  torches 

are  seen  ranging  through  the  forest.     Enter 

the  BARONESS  and  the  ABBE.) 

BAR.  It  is  as  clear  as  day,  she  is  mad. 
She  has  been  seized  with  an  attack  of  giddi- 
ness. 

ABB£.  She  called  out:  "lam  ill."  You 
can  fancy  my  position. 

VAN  B.  (singing,} 

"  II  est  done  bien  vrai, 
Charmante  Colette, 
II  est  done  bien  vrai 
Que,  pour  votre  fete, 
Colin  vous  a  fait — 
Present  d'un  bouquet." 

BAR.  And  just  at  that  moment,  I  see  a 
carriage  coming.  I  had  no  time  to  call  Du- 
pre.  Dupre  was  not  there.  The  carriage 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  295 

drives  in,  they  alight.  It  was  the  Marquise 
de  Valangoujar  and  the  Baron  de  Ville- 
bouzin. 

ABBE.  When  I  heard  the  first  cry  I  hesi- 
tated ;  but  what  could  I  do  ?  I  saw  her 
there,  senseless,  stretched  on  the  floor ;  she 
was  screaming,  I  had  the  key  in  my  hand. 

VAN  B.   (singing.) 

Quand  il  vous  1'offrit, 
Charmante  brunette, 
Quand  il  vous  1'offrit, 
Petite  Colette, 
On  dit  qu'il  vous  prit — 
Un  frisson  subit. 

BAR.  Can  any  one  conceive  such  a  thing  ? 
I  ask  you. — My  daughter  running  away 
across  the  fields  and  thirty  carriages  driving 
up  to  the  door  at  the  same  time  !  I  shall 
never  survive  a  thing  like  this  ! 

ABBS'.  If  I  had  even  had  time,  I  might, 
perhaps,  have  held  her  by  her  shawl, — or  at 
least, — in  fact,  by  my  entreaties,  by  force  of 
reasoning. 

VAN  B.     (singing') 

Dites  a  present, 
Charmante  bergere, 
Dites  a  present 
Que  vous  n'aimez  guere 
Qu'un  amant  constant — 
Vous  fasse  un  present. 


296  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

BAR.  Is  that  you,  Van  Buck?  Ah!  my 
dear  friend,  we  are  lost.  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  ?  My  daughter  is  out  of  her  mind, 
she  is  running  about  the  fields  !  Could  you 
imagine  such  a  thing?  I  have  forty  people 
at  my  house  ;  here  I  am  on  foot,  and  in  this 
weather  !  You  have  not  seen  her  in  the 
wood  ?  She  has  run  away,  it  is  like  a  dream  ; 
she  had  her  hair  dressed  and  powdered  on 
one  side  only,  her  maid  tells  me.  She  has 
gone  out  in  her  white  satin  slippers,  knocking 
down  the  Abbe,  who  was  there,  and  passing 
over  his  body.  I  shall  die  of  it.  The  ser- 
vants can  find  no  trace,  and  there  is  nothing 
more  to  be  done  ;  I  must  go  back  to  the  house. 
It  couldn't,  by  any  chance,  be  your  nephew 
who  would  play  us  such  a  trick  ?  I  was 
rude  to  you  ; — let  us  say  no  more  about  it. 
Come  !  Help  me,  and  we  will  make  friends. 
You  are  my  old  friend,  are  you  not  ?  I  am 
a  mother,  Van  Buck.  Ah  !  Cruel  fortune  ! 
Cruel  chance  !  What  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve this  ? 

\_She  begins  to  weep. 

VAN  B.  Is  it  possible,  Baroness  ?  You 
alone  and  on  foot !  You  looking  for  your 
daughter !  Good  God  !  You  are  weeping  ! 
Wretch  that  I  am  ! 

ABB£.     Can  you  know  anything  about  it, 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  *97 

Monsieur?  For  pity's  sake,  tell  us  all  you 
know. 

VAN  B.  Come,  Baroness,  take  my  arm 
and  God  grant  we  may  find  them.  I  will  tell 
you  all ;  have  no  fear.  My  nephew  is  a  man 
of  honor,  and  all  can  yet  be  set  right. 

BAR.  Ah,  bah  !  It  was  a  rendez-vous  ? 
The  sly  little  minx  !  Whom  can  I  trust  after 
this?  [They go  off. 


SCENE  IV.— A  GLADE  IN  THE  WOOD. 
CECILE  and  VALENTIN. 

VAL.     Who's  there  ?     Cecile,  is  it  you  ? 

CE'CILE.  It  is  I.  What  is  the  meaning  of 
these  torches  and  lights  among  the  trees  ? 

VAL.  I  don't  know;  what  does  it  matter  ? 
It  is  nothing  to  us. 

C£ciLE.  Come  over  there,  in  the  moon- 
light ;  where  you  see  that  rock. 

VAL.  No,  over  there,  under  the  shadow 
of  those  birches.  It  is  possible  that  they 
may  be  looking  for  you,  and  you  must  be 
careful  not  to  be  seen. 

C£CILE.  But  then  I  should  not  see  your 
face  ;  come,  Valentin,  obey. 

VAL.  Wherever  you  wish,  you  darling 
girl ;  where  you  go  I  will  follow.  Do  not 


298  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

take  from  me  that  trembling  hand,  let  my  lips 
bring  it  comfort. 

C£CILE.  I  could  not  come  sooner.  Have 
you  been  waiting  long  for  me  ? 

VAL.  Since  the  moon  rose  ;  look  at  this 
letter,  all  wet  with  tears,  it  is  the  one  you 
wrote  me. 

CE'CILE.  You  story-teller  !  It  is  the  wind 
and  the  rain  that  have  wept  on  that  paper. 

VAL.  No,  Cecile,  it  was  joy  and  love,  it 
was  happiness  and  longing.  What  troubles 
you  ?  Why  those  looks  ?  What  are  you 
looking  for? 

CE'CILE.  Strange  !  I  don't  know  where  I 
am.  Where  is  your  uncle  ?  I  thought  I  saw 
him  here. 

VAL.  My  uncle  has  drunk  too  much  Bur- 
gundy, your  mother  is  far  away,  and  all  is 
quiet.  This  is  the  place  you  chose,  and 
which  your  letter  pointed  out  to  me. 

CE'CILE.  Your  uncle  is  drunk  ? — Why  was 
he  hiding  in  the  hedge  this  morning  ? 

VAL.  This  morning  ?  Where  ?  What  do 
you  mean  ?  I  was  walking  alone  in  the 
garden. 

C£ciLE.  This  morning,  when  I  spoke  to 
you,  your  uncle  was  behind  a  tree.  Didn't 
you  know  ?  I  saw  him  as  I  turned  the 
walk. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  299 

VAL.  You  must  have  been  mistaken  ;  I 
saw  nothing. 

C£ciLE.  Oh  !  I  saw  him  plainly  ;  he  was 
pushing  the  branches  aside  ;  perhaps  it  was  to 
spy  upon  us. 

VAL.  How  absurd  !  You  must  have 
dreamt  it.  Let  us  not  talk  of  it  any  more. 
Give  me  a  kiss. 

C£ciLE.  Yes,  dear,  and  with  all  my  heart. 
Sit  down  near  me.  Tell  me,  why  did  you  speak 
like  that  about  my  mother  in  your  first  letter  ? 

VAL.  Forgive  me  ;  it  was  in  a  moment  of 
insanity  and  I  was  not  master  of  myself. 

CECILS.  She  asked  me  for  the  letter  and 
I  dared  not  show  it  to  her  ;  I  knew  what 
would  happen.  But  who  could  have  told 
her  ?  She  couldn't  guess  anything ;  the 
letter  was  there,  in  my  pocket. 

VAL.  Poor  child  !  They  have  treated 
you  badly.  It  must  have  been  your  maid 
who  betrayed  you.  Whom  can  we  trust,  in 
cases  like  this  ? 

C£ciLE.  Oh  no  !  My  maid  is  safe  ;  there 
was  no  need  to  give  her  money.  But  when  you 
failed  in  respect  for  my  mother  you  failed  in 
respect  for  me. 

VAL.  Let  us  talk  no  more  about  it,  since 
you  pardon  me.  Let  us  not  waste  such  pre- 
cious moments.  O  my  Cecile  !  How  lovely 


300  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

you  are,  and  how  much  of  .my  happiness  rests 
with  you  !  By  what  oaths,  by  what  treasures 
can  I  repay  your  sweet  caresses?  Ah  !  my 
life  itself  would  not  be  enough  !  Come  to 
my  heart,  let  yours  feel  its  beatings,  and  let 
this  fair  heaven  carry  them  both  to  God  ! 

CECILE.  Yes,  Valentin,  my  heart  is  sin- 
cere. Doesn't  my  hair  smell  sweet  ?  I  have 
powder  on  that  side,  but  I  didn't  take  the 
time  to  put  it  on  the  other. — Why  did  you 
hide  your  name  when  you  came  to  us  ? 

VAL.  I  can't  tell  you  ;  it  was  a  whim,  a 
wager  I  had  made. 

CE'CILE.     A  wager  !     With  whom  ? 
VAL.     I   know  nothing   more   about  it  ; — 
what  do  these  follies  matter  ? 

CE'CILE.  With  your  uncle,  perhaps  ;  wasn't 
it? 

VAL.  Yes.  I  loved  you,  and  wished  to 
know  you,  and  to  have  no  one  between  us. 

C£ciLE.  You  were  right.  I  would  have 
done  the  same,  in  your  place. 

VAL.  Why  are  you  so  inquisitive,  and 
what  is  the  good  of  all  these  questions?  Do 
you  not  love  me,  my  sweet  Ce"cile  ?  Answer 
me  yes,  and  let  everything  be  forgotten. 

CE'CILE.  Yes,  dear,  Cecile  loves  you,  and 
she  would  wish  to  be  more  worthy  of  being 
loved  ;  but  it  is  enough  that  she  i?  loved  by 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  301 

you.  Lay  your  two  hands  in  mine.  Why  did 
you  refuse  to-day,  when  I  asked  you  to  stay 
to  dinner  ? 

VAL.  I  wanted  to  start ;  I  had  some 
business  this  evening. 

CECILE.  Not  very  important  business,  and 
not  very  far  away,  it  seems  to  me,  for  you 
got  out  of  your  carriage  at  the  end  of 
the  avenue. 

VAL.     You  saw  me  ?     How  do  you  know  ? 

CE"CILE.  Oh  !  I  was  watching?  Why  did 
you  tell  me  you  couldn't  dance  the  mazurka  ? 
I  saw  you  dance  it  last  winter. 

VAL.     Where  ?     I  don't  remember. 

CECILE.  At  the  fancy-dress  ball  at  Ma- 
dame de  Gesvres'.  How  is  it  you  don't  re- 
member ?  You  said  in  your  letter,  yesterday, 
that  you  had  seen  me  last  winter  ;  it  was 
there. 

VAL.  You  are  right ;  I  remember  now. 
Look  how  clear  the  night  is!  How  the 
breeze  gently  lifts  this  greedy  gauze  that 
surrounds  your  shoulders !  Listen  !  It  is 
the  voice  of  the  night,  it  is  the  song  of  the 
bird  that  invites  to  happiness.  Behind  that 
high  rock  no  eyes  can  find  us  out.  Every- 
thing sleeps  except  those  who  love.  Allow 
my  hand  to  remove  this  veil  and  my  two 
ar-ms  to  take  its  place. 


302  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

CE'CILE.  Yes,  dear.  Would  that  I  could 
seem  beautiful  to  you  !  But  do  not  take 
away  your  hand  ;  I  feel  that  my  heart  is  in 
mine,  and  goes  to  your  heart  by  that  way. — 
But  why  did  you  want  to  start  off  and  pre- 
tend to  be  going  to  Paris  ? 

VAL.  It  was  necessary  ;  it  was  for  my 
uncle.  Besides,  dared  I  foresee  that  you 
would  meet  me  here  ?  Oh  !  how  I  trembled 
as  I  wrote  that  letter,  and  how  I  suffered 
while  I  waited  for  you  ! 

C^CILE.  Why  should  I  not  come,  when  I 
know  you  are  going  to  marry  me  ? 

[VALENTIN  rises  and  begins  pacing  up  and 
down. 

What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  trou- 
bles you  ?  Come  back  and  sit  down  by  me. 

VAL.  Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me.  I 
thought — I  thought  I  heard — I  thought  I 
saw  some  one  in  this  direction. 

C^CILE.  We  are  alone ;  have  no  fear. 
Come  then.  Must  I  get  up  ?  Have  I  said 
anything  to  offend  you  ?  Your  face  looks 
different.  Is  it  because  I  kept  on  my  shawl 
when  you  wanted  me  to  take  it  off  ?  It  was 
because  it  is  cold,  and  I  am  in  my  ball  dress. 
Look  at  my  satin  slippers.  What  will  poor 
Henriette  think  ?  But  what  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  You  don't  answer.  You  are  sad. 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  303 

What  can  I  have  said  to  you  ?  It  is  my 
fault,  I  can  see. 

VAL.  No,  I  swear  to  you,  Mademoiselle, 
you  are  mistaken.  It  was  an  involuntary 
thought  that  passed  through  my  mind. 

C£ciLE.  But  just  now  you  did  not  call  me 
"Mademoiselle";  you  even  spoke  to  me,  I 
thought,  in  rather  too  light  a  tone.  What  is 
this  bad  thought  which  has  suddenly  struck 
you  ?  Have  I  displeased  you  ?  I  shall  feel 
miserable  if  I  have.  But  I  don't  think  I 
have  said  anything  wrong.  Still,  if  you 
would  rather  walk,  I  will  not  remain  seated. 
[She  rises.]  Give  me  your  arm  and  let  us 
walk  about.  Shall  I  tell  you  something? 
This  morning  I  had  had  a  nice  cup  of  broth, 
that  Henriette  had  made,  sent  up  to  your 
room.  When  I  met  you  I  told  you  about  it, 
and  I  thought  you  didn't  want  to  take  it,  and 
that  you  were  displeased  about  it.  I  went 
along  the  walk  three  times  ; — did  you  see 
me  ? — Then  you  had  gone  upstairs.  I  went 
and  stood  in  front  of  the  parterre  and  I  saw 
you  through  your  window  ;  you  were  holding 
the  cup  in  both  hands,  and  you  drank  it  all  at  a 
draught.  Didn't  you  ?  Did  you  like  it  ? 

VAL.  Yes,  little  darling  ;  it  was  the  best 
broth  in  the  world,  it  was  as  good  as  your 
heart  and  as  you. 


304  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 


Ah  !  When  we  are  man  and 
wife  I  Will  take  care  of  you  better  than  that. 
But,  tell  me,  what  was  the  meaning  of  your 
going  and  throwing  yourself  into  a  ditch 
and  risking  your  life  ?  And  all  for  what  ? 
You  knew  you  would  be  well  received  by  us. 
That  you  should  have  wished  to  come  all 
alone,  I  can  understand  ;  but  what  was  the 
good  of  the  rest  ?  Was  it  because  you  like 
romances  ? 

VAL.  Sometimes.  Let  us  sit  down  again. 

[  They  sit  down. 

CECILE.  I  confess  I  have  no  taste  for 
them  ;  those  I  have  read  have  no  meaning. 
It  seems  to  me  that  they  are  only  lies,  — 
everything  just  invented  at  pleasure.  They 
talk  in  them  of  nothing  but  seductions,  un- 
derhand tricks,  intrigues,  and  a  thousand 
impossible  things.  All  I  like  in  them  is  the 
scenery  ;  I  admire  the  backgrounds  but  not 
the  pictures.  Now,  for  instance,  this  even- 
ing when  I  got  your  letter  and  saw  that  it 
was  about  a  meeting  in  the  wood,  it  is  true 
that  I  gave  way  to  a  longing  to  come  which 
certainly  had  a  little  of  romance  in  it,  but 
then  it  was  because  I  also  saw  some  solid 
advantage  in  it.  If  my  mother  knew,  —  and 
she  will  know,  —  you  see  they  will  have  to  let 
us  marry.  Even  if  your  uncle  has  quarreled 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  3°5 

with  her  they  will  have  to  make  it  up.  I 
was  ashamed  of  being  locked  up  ; — and,  in- 
deed, why  should  I  have  been  ? — The  Abbe 
came  and  I  pretended  to  be  dying,  he  let  me 
out,  and  I  ran  away.  There  is  my  strata- 
gem ;  I  give  it  you  for  what  it  is  worth. 

VAL.  (aside.}  Am  I  a  fox  caught  in  his 
own  trap,  or  a  lunatic  recovering  his  reason  ? 

CECILE.  You  don't  answer  me? — Is  this 
sadness  going  to  last  forever  ? 

VAL.  You  seem  to  me  to  be  learned  for 
your  age,  and  yet  as  giddy  as  I,  who  am  as 
giddy  as  the  first  stroke  of  matins. 

CECILE.  As  for  giddy,  I  must  own  it 
here  ;  but,  my  friend,  it  is  because  I  love 
you.  Shall  I  tell  you  something  ?  I  knew 
that  you  loved  me,  and  it  was  not  only  from 
yesterday  that  I  suspected  it.  I  only  saw 
you  three  times  at  that  ball ;  but  I  have  a 
heart,  and  I  remember.  You  waltzed  with 
Mile,  de  Gesvres,  and,  as  she  was  passing 
by  the  door,  her  Italian  hair-pin  knocked 
against  the  panel,  and  her  hair  all  came 
down.  You  remember  now  ?  Ungrateful  ! 
Tne  first  word  in  your  letter  said  that  you 
remembered  it.  And  how  my  heart  did 
beat  !  ,  Now,  believe  me,  that  is  what  proves 
that  a  person  loves,  and  that  is  why  I  am 
here. 


3°6  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

VAL.  (aside.)  Either  I  have  under  my  arm 
the  cunningest  demon  hell  ever  vomited 
forth,  or  the  voice  that  speaks  to  me  is  that 
of  an  angel  and  opens  for  me  the  road  to 
heaven. 

C^CILE.  Now  as  for  learned, — that  is  an- 
other affair.  But  I  will  answer  ;  as  you  say 
nothing.  Look  !  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ? 

VAL.  What?  That  star  to  the  right  of 
the  tree  ? 

C£ciLE.  No ;  that  one  that  scarcely 
shows  itself  and  glistens  like  a  tear. 

VAL.  You  have  been  reading  Madame  de 
Stael ? 

CtfciLE.  Yes,  and  that  word,  tear,  pleases 
me,  I  don't  know  why,  like  the  stars.  A 
beautiful  clear  sky  always  makes  me  feel  in- 
clined to  weep. 

VAL.  And  it  makes  me  feel  inclined  to 
love  you,  and  to  tell  you  so,  and  to  live  for 
you.  Cecile,  do  you  know  to  whom  you  are 
speaking,  and  what  kind  of  a  man  it  is  that 
dares  to  kiss  you  ? 

C£ciLE.  First  tell  me  the  name  of  my  star. 
You  shall  not  get  off  so  easily  as  that. 

VAL.  Well  then  !  It  is  Venus,  the  star 
of  love,  the  fairest  pearl  in  all  the  ocean  of 
night. 

CE"CILE.     No,  no  !     It  is  one  more  chaste, 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  307 

and  worthier  of  respect.  You  will  learn  to  love 
it  one  day,  when  you  live  among  farmers  and 
have  your  own  poor  people  to  take  care  of. 
Admire  it,  and  do  not  laugh  ;  it  is  Ceres,  the 
goddess  of  bread. 

VAL.  Sweet  child  !  I  can  see  your  heart. 
You  do  works  of  charity,  do  you  not  ? 

CECILE.  It  was  my  mother  who  taught 
me  ;  she  is  the  best  woman  in  the  world. 

VAL.     Really?  I  should  not  have  thought  it. 

CE'CILE.  Ah.  my  friend  !  Neither  would 
a  great  many  others.  You  don't  suspect 
what  she  is  worth.  People  who  have  seen 
my  mother  for  half-an-hour  think  to  judge  of 
her  by  some  few  chance  words.  She  passes 
the  day  playing  cards  and  the  evening 
embroidering  ;  she  would  not  leave  her 
piquet  for  a  prince  ;  but  let  Dupre  come  and 
whisper  to  her,  and  she  will  rise  from  the 
table,  if  it  is  a  beggar  who  is  waiting  to  see 
her.  How  often  have  we  gone  together, 
dressed  in  silk,  as  I  am  now,  to  tramp 
through  the  by-ways  of  the  valley,  carrying 
soup,  and  meat,  and  shoes,  and  linen  for  the 
poor  !  How  often  have  I  seen  the  eyes  of 
these  unfortunates  fill  with  tears  when  my 
mother  looked  at  them  in  church  !  There  ! 
She  has  a  right  to  be  proud,  and  I  have  been 
proud  of  her  sometimes. 


308  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

VAL.  You  are  still  looking  at  that  heav- 
enly tear  ;  and  so  am  I,  but  it  is  in  your  blue 
eyes. 

CtfciLE.  How  big  the  sky  is,  and  how 
happy  the  world  is  !  How  calm  and  bene- 
ficent is  nature  ! 

VAL.  Shall  I  give  you  some  science  too  ? 
Shall  I  talk  astronomy  ?  Tell  me  ;  in  that 
dust  of  worlds,  is  there  one  that  does  not 
know  its  way,  that  has  not  received  its  mis- 
sion with  its  life, — one  but  must  die  in 
accomplishing  it  ?  Why  are  not  these 
immense  heavens  motionless  ?  Tell  me,  if 
there  ever  was  one  moment  in  which  they 
were  all  created,  in  virtue  of  what  force  did 
they  begin  to  move, — these  worlds  which  will 
never  cease  to  move  ? 

CE"CILE.     By  the  Eternal  Word. 

VAL.  By  the  eternal  Love.  The  hand 
which  suspends  them  in  space  has  written 
but  one  law,  in  letters  of  fire.  They  live 
because  they  seek  each  other,  and  the  suns 
would  fall  into  dust  if  one  among  them 
ceased  to  love. 

CE'CILE.     Ah  !     All  life  is  there  ! 

VAL.  Yes,  all  life, — from  the  ocean,  which 
lifts  itself  up  beneath  Diana's  pale  kisses,  to 
the  beetle,  that  jealously  sleeps  within  its 
own  cherished  flower.  Ask  the  forests  and 


VALENTIN'S  WAGER.  3°9 

the  stones  what  they  would  say  if  they  could 
speak.  They  have  love  in  their  hearts  and 
cannot  express  it.  I  love  you  !  That  is  all  I 
know,  my  darling  ;  that  is  what  this  flower  will 
tell  you,  which  chooses  in  the  earth's  bosom 
the  juices  that  must  nourish  it,  which  throws 
away  and  puts  off  from  it  all  the  impure 
elements  that  would  tarnish  its  freshness  ! 
It  knows  that  it  must  be  beautiful  in  the 
daylight,  and  must  die  in  its  nuptial  robe 
before  the  sun  which  created  it.  I  know  less 
than  it  of  astronomy  ;  give  me  your  hand, 
you  know  more  of  love. 

C^CILE.  I  hope,  at  least,  that  my  wedding 
dress  will  not  be  mortally  beautiful. — It 
seems  to  me  that  there  are  people  prowling 
round  about  us. 

VAL.  No,  all  is  quiet.  Are  you  not 
afraid  ?  Did  you  come  here  without  tremb- 
ling? 

CECILE.  Why  ?  What  should  I  be  afraid 
of  ?  Of  you,  or  of  the  night  ? 

VAL.  Why  not  of  me  ?  What  is  there  to 
reassure  you  ?  I  am  young,  you  are  beauti- 
ful, and  we  are  alone. 

CECILE.  Well !  What  harm  is  there  in 
that  ? 

VAL.  It  is  true  ;  there  is  no  harm.  Lis- 
ten to  me  and  let  me  kneel. 


310  VALENTIN'S  WAGER. 

CECILS.     What  is    the    matter  with  yOu  ? 
You  are  trembling. 

VAL.  I  am  trembling  with  fear  and  joy, 
for  I  am  going  to  open  the  depths  of  my 
heart  to  you.  I  am  a  madman  of  the  most 
wicked  kind,  although  in  what  I  am  going  to 
confess  to  you,  there  is  nothing  but  what  will 
make  you  shrug  your  shoulders.  I  have 
done  nothing  but  gamble,  drink,  and  smoke, 
ever  since  I  cut  my  wisdom-teeth.  You  said 
that  romances  shocked  you  ;  I  have  read 
many  of  them,  and  of  the  worst  kind.  There 
is  one  called  "  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  I  will  give 
it  you  to  read  when  you  are  my  wife.  The 
hero  loves  a  beautiful  girl  like  you,  my  darl- 
ing, and  he  wishes  to  marry  her,  but  he 
wishes  to  try  her  first.  He  runs  away  with 
her  and  takes  her  to  London  ;  after  this,  as 
she  is  resisting,  Bedford  comes — that  is  to  say, 
Tomlinson,  a  Captain, — I  mean  to  say 
Morden — no,  I  am  wrong — Well,  to  put  it 
shortly — Lovelace  is  an  idiot,  and  so  am  I,  to 
have  wished  to  follow  his  example — God  be 
praised  !  You  have  not  understood  me.  I 
love  you  ;  I  take  you  for  my  wife.  The 
only  wisdom  in  life  is  the  folly  of  love. 
[Enter  the  BARONESS,  VAN  BUCK,  the  ABBS', 

and  several  servants  with  light 's.] 

BARONESS.     I  don't  believe  one  word   of 


VALENTIN'S    WAGER.  31 1 

what  you  tell  me.  He  is  too  young  for  such 
villainy. 

VAN  B.     Alas  !  Madame,  it  is  the  truth. 

BAR.  Seduce  my  daughter!  Betray  a 
child  !  Dishonor  a  whole  family  !  Non- 
sense !  I  tell  you  you  are  talking  nonsense  ; 
such  things  are  not  done  nowadays.  Why, 
here  they  are,  kissing  each  other  !  Good- 
evening,  son-in-law  ;  where  the  mischief  are 
you  trying  to  hide  yourself  ? 

ABBE.  It  is  annoying  that  our  search 
should  be  crowned  with  such  tardy  success. 
All  the  guests  will  have  gone. 

VAN  B.  Well,  nephew,  I  hope  that  with 
your  fool's  wager — 

VAL.  Uncle,  nothing  in  this  world  is 
certain,  and  such  wagers  are  wicked. 


THE   END. 


